The silence, laced with the scent of ink and old paper, was thick enough to choke on. Though spacious, the Count's study felt suffocating.
Ahead of him, the golden-haired Count stood motionless, his back to the room as he stared out toward the horizon beyond the window.
After being left waiting at the front gates for nearly an hour, denied entry until the Count himself arrived, Adrian had only just been allowed inside.
Even now, the minutes dragged in a grueling stillness, yet Edgar had not so much as acknowledged his presence, let alone invited him to sit.
Somehow, the Countess's sharp glare and Lord Franz's hostility—whom he had passed earlier in the hallway—flickered in his mind, a silent reminder of his place as the most unwelcome man in the estate.
Adrian exhaled slowly and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He had expected an unpleasant reception, but this was far worse than he had imagined.
"You must understand, Your Grace," Edgar finally turned around. His cold blue eyes pinned Adrian's down. "Hospitality is not something I can afford to offer you at this moment."
Edgar sighed and continued, "My daughter has refused to leave her room since yesterday. She hasn't even touched her food."
His gaze sharpened. "And the reason, according to everyone in the capital, is—" his voice rose, trembling with restrained fury, "—because you couldn't restrain yourself from laying your hands on her in that train!"
Adrian stared at the man before him in silence. Knowing how deeply Edgar cherished his daughter, the man's fury was entirely justified. Still, it felt inherently unjust to be judged solely based on whispers.
"The rumor isn't—"
"Then how is the account so specific?!" Edgar cut him off. "My daughter sat on your lap! You held her—tightly!"
Adrian held the man's sharp gaze. "Sir, my life was in imminent danger—"
"Your life?" Edgar scoffed. "And so you sacrificed my daughter's honor to shield yourself? Is that it, Your Grace?"
Adrian fell silent.
His tongue felt heavy, any rebuttal dying before it could form. No matter how he tried to deny it, Edgar's accusation struck at an undeniable truth.
"Enough." Edgar's voice dropped to a chilling low. "Inform the Crown Prince and the Queen that I am withdrawing—"
"I will marry Lady Irene," Adrian cut in.
Arguing further would only worsen the situation. And he could not risk revealing the details of the opium investigation.
One thing was certain: Adrian could not allow the Archellio family's support to slip through his brother's fingers. He would not give Grand Duke Heinrich even the slightest opening to seize the throne.
Edgar let out a humorless chuckle.
"Do you truly believe that making Irene a Duchess will erase the gossip echoing through the capital?" He shook his head slowly. "No, Your Grace. The nobility will still whisper about my daughter's lost honor—even if she wears a crown upon her head."
"I am fully aware of that, sir," Adrian replied calmly.
A marriage would not erase the scandal, but—
"This is how I take responsibility," he continued. "As a Duke, with the Crown Prince and the Queen behind me, any insult directed at Lady Irene will carry consequences."
Silence fell over the room once more.
Edgar did not answer. He simply regarded Adrian with an unreadable expression.
"I will not force Lady Irene to accept," he added. "Should she refuse, I will respect her decision."
To be honest, given Irene's track record of rejecting every proposal that came her way, a sliver of doubt crept into Adrian's mind.
But considering the scandal was already festering, logic told him she had no reason to refuse—unless she truly intended to ruin both herself and Archellio House.
However, instead of responding, Edgar offered a soft, almost gentle smile that made the hairs on Adrian's arms rise.
"Consequences?" Edgar repeated.
He shook his head slowly, a low chuckle slipping free as though humoring a child. Then he stepped forward, his gaze sharpening with each measured stride.
Adrian's heart hammered against his ribs. A bead of sweat slid down his spine.
"Your Grace," Edgar said, his voice calm, almost conversational, "you come here speaking of authority, of consequences… of royal support."
He stopped just a few paces away. "But there is one thing I have yet to hear from you—"
Those cold blue eyes locked onto Adrian's.
"—remorse."
Silence hung in the air.
A single word, yet it struck deeper than any accusation.
"So tell me, Your Grace." Edgar began again, "Did you truly come here because you feel guilty for what you did to my daughter…"
He paused.
"…or because you are afraid of losing the Archellio family's support?"
Adrian's jaw tightened. Ah, of course.
Edgar Archellio was not merely a successful merchant; he was a masterful politician. It was no surprise the man had seen through him from the very beginning.
His mistake had been underestimating him.
"Both," Adrian said at last.
There was no point in evasion now.
"I will not pretend your family's support is not vital to us," he continued evenly. "And the fact that I used Lady Irene to save myself… is true."
He drew a steady breath. "However, if I were thinking solely of politics, I would not be standing before you now, sir."
Edgar's gaze softened by a fraction. "At least you are honest enough to admit it."
Adrian knew all too well what would have happened if another lie had crossed his lips.
"One more thing, Your Grace." Edgar walked past him toward the door. He paused for a heartbeat, then glanced back over his shoulder. "The decision of whether my daughter accepts your proposal… does not belong to me."
Without waiting for a response, Edgar opened the door and left, disappearing into the corridor.
Adrian remained where he was.
The Silence that followed was suffocating.
***
Irene stared listlessly at the expanse of blooming flowers before her. The melodious chirping of birds and the gentle trickle of the fountain—sounds that usually soothed her—now did nothing to ease the bitterness gnawing at her heart.
The sound of approaching footsteps made her blood boil. Her jaw tightened; her hands curled into fists at her sides. Even without turning, she knew exactly who had come.
"Lady Irene."
That loathsome baritone voice.
Irene closed her eyes for a brief moment. No matter how many times she told herself this meeting would not shake her, reality proved otherwise. She drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
When a sliver of calm returned, Irene finally turned. Adrian Dietrich stood just a few paces away, that infuriatingly stoic expression fixed in place. The only thing different was the bruise blooming across his cheek—her handiwork.
Without preamble, she began. "I've heard thirteen is an unlucky number." To hell with the etiquette. "Therefore, the answer is no."
Irene lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with open defiance. "I reject your proposal."
She whirled on her heel and walked away, but a hand seized her wrist.
The world lurched as she was yanked back, her body colliding with Adrian's broad chest. The sharp scent of sandalwood filled her senses.
His obsidian eyes locked onto hers. "I wasn't finished speaking."