He scrutinized them, searching for any hidden intent, but the humiliation had vanished from her face, replaced by a faint shame at having laid her soul so bare.
Clifton knew her.
It was not just her fair face that was naive; her entire disposition was untouched by the world’s cynicism.
He knew as much from his sister’s occasional complaints.
Such a woman was incapable of telling such a brazen lie.
So, was he supposed to believe her?
That was even more impossible.
Nauseated by the mere thought of holding hands?
It was physiologically absurd.
A dry, humorless laugh escaped him.
“Are you mocking me?” he asked, his jaw tightening.
“Or is this some petty revenge for what I said earlier?”
Merdi waved her hands in alarm.
“Revenge?
No!
I am simply being honest about my condition…!”
Her wide, indignant eyes only proved her sincerity, and the sight soured his mood further.
“No one will believe such a ridiculous story.”
Her gaze began to wander across the table.
“Others may not, but you must believe me, Your Grace.
You cannot take a wife who suffers from such a condition.
And…”
Her eyelashes began to tremble, an almost imperceptible flutter.
“Besides… you hate me, do you not?”
The hand that had been propping up his chin fell away.
His expression was as rigid as the atmosphere in the room, so still it felt as if time itself had frozen.
Unaware of the shift in his demeanor, Merdi pressed on.
“If the request for the annulment comes from the kingdom, it will not damage the Empire’s image.
His Majesty will not object.
Being freed from this engagement would be a good thing for you, too.”
Clifton stared at her, his silence a heavy weight.
Who was she to presume to weigh the advantages and disadvantages?
Her innocence, now armed with determination, had made her utterly brazen.
Did she have any idea how her audacity made his head throb with anger?
There was no reason to remain here any longer.
“You should seek permission not from His Majesty, but from your father,” he said, his voice dangerously low.
“He will be the one most opposed to this annulment.”
With that, Clifton rose to his feet.
Though the lazy afternoon sun streamed into the office, his eyes were dark.
He pushed back from the desk so abruptly that his chair scraped loudly against the floor, his depleted patience erasing any trace of his usual elegant composure.
“Wait…!” Merdi cried, scrambling to her feet as he turned to leave.
She could not let it end like this.
But the raw scrape on her heel, a gift from her high-heeled shoes, betrayed her desperation.
A sharp bolt of pain shot up her leg, and her body swayed.
“Ahh!”
She flailed, her hands grasping at empty air, when a firm arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her.
The hand on the small of her back was solid and secure.
Through the smooth fabric of his shirt, she could feel the hard muscle of his arm.
He had caught her, and she quickly regained her balance.
‘Ugh…!’
But her stomach, which had begun to churn uneasily, did not settle.
The ground seemed to vibrate beneath her, and her vision swam.
It was the disorienting lurch of seasickness.
‘…It’s starting again.’
Merdi tried to thank him, to pull away.
After their cruel exchange, she wanted nothing more than to pretend he did not exist, but he had just saved her from a fall.
“Thank—”
The word died in her throat.
She clamped her lips shut, her cheeks puffing out as if her mouth were full of water.
Seeing her expression, Clifton’s brow furrowed.
He seemed to have lost all control over his own features.
“S-sorry… please let… go…” The words tumbled out, disjointed and desperate.
As she watched the deep crease form between his brows, Merdi felt herself sinking into a mire.
Just as he seemed to be about to speak, she shoved his chest with all her might.
It was a last-ditch effort, a desperate lunge from the tips of her toes, but to a man hardened by military training, the gesture was pitiful.
He did not budge.
Trapped in his arms, Merdi’s face grew paler and paler, from white to a ghastly, ashen gray.
And in that moment, as Clifton watched the color drain from her, a sound echoed through the historic, stately office—a sound that should never have been heard there.
‘A retch.’
“Merdi!
Merdi!”
Merdi had barely set foot in the Annex, her shoulders slumped in defeat, when a ferocious voice cut through the air, hunting for her.
Though she knew escape was impossible, she instinctively glanced around, looking for a place to hide.
Just then, Emma, the head maid, spotted her and strode over.
“There you are, Miss Merdi!”
“Emma…”
Emma was the head maid of the Annex.
Having served the Greenfield estate for decades, her loyalty was absolute.
Initially, she had followed Margaret’s lead and treated Merdi with strict formality, but over time, her demeanor had softened.
Perhaps it was because Merdi was the same age as her own daughter, long since passed, or perhaps she simply pitied the girl who seemed to wilt a little more with each passing day.
Though Emma ran a tight ship and considered Margaret’s word law, she had a noticeable soft spot for Merdi.
“The Grand Dame has been in a frenzy looking for you.
She was going on about Count Melvitch’s daughter… You must go to her at once.”
The last bit of color drained from Merdi’s cheeks.
It seemed the tale of her causing a commotion in the Melvitch family’s sunroom had already made its way through the capital and into Margaret’s ears.
The capital and Greenfield were far too close; that was the estate’s only flaw, though that was a sentiment only she held.
Her feet felt like lead as she walked, like a cow being led to the slaughter.
Margaret, who had been fanning herself with agitated flicks of her wrist, spotted Merdi and swept toward her.
“You!” she hissed, her voice sharper than the thorns on the garden roses.
“Have you lost your mind?
Humiliating Vivian Melvitch in front of all those people?”
Margaret’s reputation in high society was impeccable, built not just on her title as the Grand Duke’s eldest sister but on her elegant gestures, dignified speech, and impeccable management of her household.
But in Merdi’s presence, she transformed into the wicked stepmother from a fairy tale.
In her eyes, Merdi was always lacking.
When Merdi mastered the Imperial language, Margaret criticized her cheerful gait.
When she corrected her walk, Margaret lamented her clumsy embroidery.
In the end, her disapproving gaze always came to rest on Merdi’s red-gold hair.
Merdi did not dare talk back.
Here, with Clifton away, Margaret’s rule was absolute.
“…The fact that Miss Vivian uses a ghost-painter was already a well-known rumor in certain circles.”
‘Sigh.’ The moment the words left Merdi’s mouth, Margaret pressed a hand to her forehead and heaved a dramatic sigh.
“How can you have lived here for five years and still not understand?
It does not matter whether that girl used a ghost-painter or not!
What matters is that the vulgar secret came from ‘your’ mouth.
If you cannot grasp how utterly low-class that is, then you are more of a problem than I thought.”
Her sharp gaze raked over Merdi, dissecting her from head to toe.
“I have told you countless times that in these changing times, the only thing that truly distinguishes the nobility is honor.
Yet you have degraded the name of the Grand Duchy by blathering on about ghost-painting!
You had better understand the consequences of your actions today.”
Margaret’s scolding was relentless.
Merdi, however, had no strength left to retort.
What little energy she possessed was utterly depleted from her encounter with Clifton.
The reserves she kept for enduring Margaret’s tirades had been spent heaving; now, simply remaining upright was a struggle.
Seeing Merdi standing there with her lips sealed, Margaret clicked her tongue.
‘Tsk.’ She turned her head.
“Emma.”
Emma, standing at the end of the line of maids, raised her head.
“…Yes, Madam.”
“Lock Merdi in that room until sunrise.”
Emma’s lips parted in protest, but seeing Merdi give a small, resigned nod from behind Margaret’s back, she answered helplessly, “…As you wish.”