Chapter 4

　　Clifton sat quietly in the chair of his study, a room in the mansion to which he had returned after a long absence, and gazed out the window. Despite it being years since he had last sat there, he showed no sign of discomfort. He looked as natural and composed as if he occupied that chair every day. He elegantly crossed his long legs, his eyes fixed on the green leaves of a branch just outside the window. As the wind rustled the leaves, an unknown bird that had been perched there fluttered its wings and took flight.

　　“Ahem.”

　　Frederic, Clifton’s secretary, cautiously cleared his throat. He had served Clifton for many years, and since it was rare for his employer to be so distracted, he was assessing the situation before daring to speak.

　　He is not one to be lost in thought with someone standing before him…

　　Clifton had been this way ever since the succession ceremony. Frederic worried, but knowing Clifton was not a man who confided in others, he kept his concerns to himself and delivered his message.

　　“Representative, the guest from the Hermond Company has arrived.”

　　Clifton’s gaze, which had been lingering on the empty branch, slowly moved to Frederic. A faint weariness clouded his slightly narrowed eyes.

　　Frederic quickly explained.

　　“It’s been a few years, so you may not recall. To briefly summarize the Hermond Company…”

　　“I am aware of them,” Clifton cut in. “A company that focused primarily on trade but has recently expanded into shipping.”

　　And the reason for their visit today is apparent. His eyes remained indifferent. In this era of rapid industrial development, oil was time, and it was money. The demand for it was insatiable. Everyone wanted it cheaper, and they wanted more of it. He didn’t need to be told why companies, armed with lengthy business proposals, were wearing a path to his door, begging for investment.

　　Even though he was still reacquainting himself with Greenfield after his long absence on the battlefield, this was his home, his domain. In less than a week, he had effortlessly grasped the empire’s complex, interwoven business landscape. No matter how much one unexpected event had turned his mind into a mire.

　　“You remember,” Frederic said, relieved. He had worried for nothing.

　　No matter how different he seemed, he was still Clifton Greenfield. The proud master of this estate, who had achieved historic feats on the battlefield amidst the ceaseless roar of cannons. The praise for him would surely continue, even off the battlefield. From a young age, Clifton had been lauded for taking after his grandfather, the founder and developer of the Greenfield Company. He was the proud heir of Greenfield, having inherited the blood of a brilliant soldier from his father and an outstanding businessman from his grandfather.

　　Frederic’s worry had already transformed into satisfaction. As if in response, the weariness vanished from Clifton’s eyes. His irises, a stark contrast to their whites, were sharp and clear. He had once more become the perfect representative of the Greenfield Company.

　　“Show them in.”

　　Just as Frederic was about to turn away with a deep bow of respect, Clifton stopped him.

　　“One moment.”

　　Frederic paused and looked back.

　　“Yes?”

　　“Did anything happen with my fiancée while I was away?”

　　His fiancée… Miss Merdi Langlen? A flicker of bewilderment crossed Frederic’s face. Since the engagement, Clifton had never once asked about her. Even the stable hands knew that this marriage was merely a duty to him. Why was he suddenly asking about her now?

　　“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know much about her. She rarely leaves the annex, and since the Grand Dame, Margaret, is in charge of her education, I have little occasion to hear anything. I can look into it, if you command it.” Frederic answered, forcing his tone to betray as little curiosity as possible.

　　Clifton was silent for a moment. The corners of his eyes grew cold, but the expression was fleeting. When he looked up again, it was gone.

　　“That’s alright. Let’s go meet our guest.”

　　The meeting with the Hermond Company dragged on. The company’s representative had assumed that Clifton, having just returned from war, would be more soldier than businessman. However, the Clifton he met was far sharper and more impenetrable than the uncle who had been managing the company in his stead. By the end of the meeting, the representative was practically on his knees begging for an investment and had to be dragged out by the mansion’s guards.

　　Clifton loosened his tie and took a cigarette from a silver case, placing it between his lips. The smoke that curled from his mouth scattered into the air. His chest felt tight, as if constricted by an invisible weight. It was not because of the messy, prolonged meeting. It was because of his wild bird of a fiancée, Merdi Langlen, who flickered in his mind no matter how he tried to banish her.

　　Since the succession ceremony, Clifton often found himself in this state.

　　“I wish to annul our engagement, Your Grace.”

　　Her small, frail voice had struck him with the impact of a gunshot grazing his eardrum. The day that should have been perfect had been ruined by that short, devastating conversation. Merdi Langlen. That innocent-faced woman probably had no idea what she had done. If she had calculated this entire affair, it would be a performance worthy of applause. Not even the enemy guerrillas he had painstakingly hunted had managed to unnerve him this much.

　　Merdi’s request for an annulment was something Clifton had not anticipated in the slightest. She was the princess of a subjugated nation, brought here on terms that were far more than she deserved, a princess from a kingdom that lagged far behind the empire in civilization and technology.

　　Clifton remembered the first time he saw her. Though he had visited unannounced, her appearance was such that he could scarcely believe she was a princess. The girl, with leaves tangled in her hair, was vastly different from the young ladies of his childhood. That day, Clifton had learned for the first time that a noble lady might wear leather boots instead of delicate slippers.

　　She didn’t even seem to notice her shoelace was untied.

　　He had taken that unremarkable princess and had her molded into a lady. Clifton remembered the image of Merdi standing shyly beside Margaret every time he returned to the empire. The scrawny girl had grown a little each time he saw her, slowly blossoming into a woman. Her curly hair, which once reached her shoulder blades, now cascaded down to her waist, and her once-flat figure had developed subtle curves. Her lips, which she used to purse habitually before speaking…

　　As his thoughts reached that point, Clifton irritably stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. How much the woman had grown was irrelevant. What mattered was that she was demanding an annulment, utterly ignorant of her place. The Kingdom of Belloc had given up one wild daughter for countless benefits; there was no reason for them to break the engagement. This meant it was Merdi’s own unilateral decision.

　　It was grating.

　　Her attitude was not that of someone trying to negotiate better terms. It was as if all she truly wanted was the annulment; even as she cowered, her clear eyes were strangely resolute. An inexplicable sense of betrayal chilled him to the bone.

　　Merdi Langlen. Unable to find the source of his anger, he simply chewed on her name. As he quietly traced the chain of that emotion, he realized this sense of betrayal stemmed from the suspicion that she had deceived him. One moment she was gazing at him shyly, feigning devotion, and the next she was demanding an annulment. Thinking back on it now, he wondered if she had ever liked him at all. She would look at him as if she were shy, yet if he tried to get even a little closer, conscious of others’ gazes, she would flinch and pull away.

　　As if she couldn’t bear the touch of something unclean.

　　He hadn’t pointed it out at the time. The marriage was inevitable, and once they were husband and wife, they would have to share a bed at least once. Wasting emotion on such things was pointless. He had dismissed it as something that would simply take time for a free-spirited, immature princess.

　　But now, he thought he understood. The strange anger he felt whenever he saw her wasn’t because this naive princess was a stain on his perfect life. It was because he had subconsciously anticipated that she would one day betray him like this.

　　Lost in thought, Clifton realized he had already wiped his hands with a handkerchief more than three times. The habit, born from trying to wash away the smell of blood from the battlefield, had developed into a mild mysophobia and showed no signs of improving. He disliked having other scents on his body and rarely smoked for that reason, knowing it would take a long time for the smell of tobacco to fade completely, no matter how much he washed.

　　In the end, Clifton ordered a maid to empty the ashtray and bring him a fresh shirt and vest, changing his clothes on the spot.

　　As he sat down, a soft knock sounded at the door. The knock, delicate yet impactful, resembled its owner. Clifton instinctively frowned, picturing the small silhouette standing on the other side. Soon, a small but resolute voice came from beyond the door.

　　“Your Grace, it’s Merdi… May I speak with you for a moment?”