“So, what brings you here today?” her aunt asked, her eyes raking Johanna up and down.
Her disapproving gaze made it clear she found Johanna’s shabby attire offensive in such a luxurious space.
“If you have come about that loan, I cannot help you.
The debt must be substantial, and I have no reason to trust your ability to repay it, let alone your father’s.
Your brother is too young, and it’s not as if you have managed to snag a rich man.”
Johanna remained silent.
She had not expected any help, but the cold finality in her aunt’s tone still managed to twist something sour in her gut.
Johanna’s expression went blank as she fixed her aunt with an icy stare.
When she finally spoke, her voice was laced with aggression.
“I did not come for help.
I came to repay my debt.
Though it seems you have mistaken me for a shameless beggar.”
“What?” her aunt scoffed.
“Repay it?
Where on earth did you get the money?”
“That is none of your concern.” Johanna retrieved the envelope from her bag and held it out.
Her aunt took it, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“It is exactly twenty thousand Rubels.
Feel free to count it.”
Her aunt said nothing.
Without a word, her aunt tore open the envelope and began to count the bills with practiced speed.
As she flicked through the last of the notes, her eyes widened in shock.
“It really is twenty thousand… Where did you get this?
You have not done anything illegal, have you?”
Johanna let out a humorless laugh.
Illegal?
Far from it.
The arrangement was perfectly legal—though she knew she would not be able to escape the public’s scorn when the truth eventually came out.
“I received some help.”
“Help?
From whom?”
“You do not need to know.
Now that you have confirmed the amount, I shall be on my way.”
“Wait!
Johanna!
Just a moment!” her aunt called out as she turned to leave.
Sighing in irritation, Johanna turned back.
She had no desire to exchange another word with the woman.
Her aunt’s eyes scanned her face, searching.
“Have you found yourself a man?” she asked abruptly.
Johanna did not answer.
For a fleeting moment, Johanna was tempted to say yes just to spite her.
But that would only invite an interrogation about his identity.
Silence was the better option.
A dull throb started behind her eyes as she spoke.
“I will tell you later.
It is… difficult to explain right now.”
“Who could possibly be so mysterious?
Surely… it is not that loan shark, is it?”
“Excuse me?
Who?” Johanna gaped, the assumption so absurd it left her speechless.
There was only one person her aunt could be referring to.
Ilian Redis.
As if she would be insane enough to get involved with him.
The idea was so preposterous she could not even muster a laugh.
She stood frozen, just staring.
“Well, I heard Mr.
Redis paid a visit to your house,” her aunt continued, a speculative gleam in her eye.
“He is not the type to make house calls, so it struck me as odd.
I wondered if he might have taken an interest in you.”
“…And how did you know he came to our house?”
“I—I just happened to hear about it.
An acquaintance saw him while passing by.”
“Huh…” Johanna breathed out, her lips twisting into a smirk.
So, her aunt knew.
She knew their situation was so dire that a loan shark had come to their home making threats, and she had done nothing.
Clarice Rietberg was a truly despicable woman.
“It is not him.”
“Then who is it?”
“That is none of your business.
But since you are so curious about him, let me tell you what he suggested.
He told me to either sell my body in a brothel or sell Daniel off as a stud.”
“What…?”
Bewilderment washed over her aunt’s face.
She opened and closed her mouth, speechless.
Johanna gave her one last, cold glare before turning away for good.
She strode to the door and gripped the gold-plated handle.
Just as she was about to turn it, a thought occurred to her.
She glanced back over her shoulder.
“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘you reap what you sow,’ Auntie?”
“…What are you trying to say?”
“You should try being generous to others.
That way, if you ever fall, there might be a hand to catch you.”
“Hah, are you now—”
“Life is unpredictable, is it not?” Johanna cut her off.
Her aunt opened her mouth to retort, but Johanna refused to listen, wrenching the door open.
She stormed into the hallway, letting the door slam shut behind her with a resounding bang.
A nearby maid jumped at the sound, her eyes wide with shock, but Johanna simply ignored her and strode away.
*
The confrontation with her aunt had left her utterly drained.
All she wanted was to go home and collapse into bed, but she still had one more task to complete.
Johanna stood in silence for a moment.
A new, six-story building stood in the heart of the bustling downtown district.
This was the address on Ilian Redis’s business card.
She was surprised by its clean, almost luxurious facade.
She marveled that he ran a loan shark business from a place like this.
But of course, it would not be just that.
On the surface, he likely ran several legitimate companies.
But if one were to peel back the layers, the core would be rotten and black.
He was the kind of man one should never get entangled with.
It was a relief to know that once the debt was paid, she would never have to see him again.
The problem was that, until the debt was paid in full, she would have to see him again.
“How can I help you?” the receptionist asked as Johanna entered the lobby, her eyes sweeping over Johanna’s worn clothes with unconcealed skepticism.
Johanna hesitated.
The words I am here to pay off a debt felt almost laughable, despite being the truth.
“Please inform Mr.
Redis that Johanna Lucerne is here,” she said instead.
The receptionist eyed her suspiciously.
“Oh… very well,” she muttered.
Ignoring the woman’s rudeness, Johanna stood near the desk and let her gaze drift around the lobby.
It was filled with curious objects that looked as though they had been imported from distant lands.
The eclectic collection of art created a strange, compelling harmony, offering a glimpse into the unique taste of its collector.
In a way, it was far more refined than her aunt’s mansion.
But one piece felt jarringly out of place.
A large oil painting dominated one wall, a work she recognized from a reproduction in a library book: Eucles Slaying His Father.
The dynamic brushwork depicted a scene of raw mythology.
In the ancient tale, Eucles was cast out as a newborn, accused of being the queen’s illegitimate son.
Years later, he learns the truth: he is the king’s rightful heir.
He returns to his father to claim his birthright, but the king has already remarried and named a new son as his successor.
When the king gently turns him away, Eucles leaves the palace, his heart heavy.
But soon after, he is set upon by assassins.
A finch—the spirit of his dead mother—warns him of the danger, revealing that it was his own father who sent them.
With this, Eucles learns the final, shattering truth: his father had murdered his mother as well.
He vows revenge.
Making offerings to the goddess of vengeance, he is granted wisdom and strength, and he goes on to become a great war hero.
At the banquet held in his honor, he drives a knife into his father’s heart.
The painting captured that exact, brutal moment.
This painting was the only thing that did not fit.
It felt intentional, though she could not say why.
A strange feeling washed over her as she stared at the canvas, at Eucles plunging the knife into his father’s chest.
The king’s eyes were wide with shock, a stark contrast to the resolute, living fire in Eucles’s dark gaze.
“…Hello.
What are you looking at?”
A voice directly behind her made Johanna flinch, her body going rigid.
For a moment, she did not move.
Then, slowly, she turned.
Was this a primal fear?
Her heart hammered against her ribs as if trying to escape.
As she expected, he was standing there.
He wore a suit as black as mourning attire, but his shirt was the color of deep wine, a shade that evoked the scent of his pheromones—the fragrant, sharp aroma of aged wine.
The memory alone was enough to stir her fear.
Forcing strength into her legs, she refused to cower.
“Were you admiring the painting?” Ilian Redis asked, approaching with a leisurely stride.
He stopped before her, a faint, curious smile playing on his lips.
It held a hint of surprise, but also a flicker of amusement.
“The king, you see, never liked the queen.”
Ilian began his story in a soft, lilting tone, his languid gaze sweeping over the canvas.
“She was ugly.
At least, in his eyes.
The queen was cursed to appear hideous only to him.
In truth, she was a peerless beauty.”
Desperate to be rid of her, the king devised a plan.
He would sleep with the queen to get her pregnant, but he would also arrange for men to be seen entering and leaving her chambers, framing her for adultery.
She would be branded an immoral woman who had borne an illegitimate child, making her easy to depose.
“The child was the spitting image of the queen,” he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Not a trace of the king in him.
It was the perfect pretense.
In the end, everything went according to plan.”
The newborn was set adrift on the river in a small boat, and the queen was locked away in a separate palace.
But she prayed to the gods every day, proclaiming her innocence, and the king, terrified the truth might come to light, finally had her killed.
“He could never have known… that the infant would survive and return.”
Ilian had moved to stand beside her.
He tore his gaze from the painting and fixed it on Johanna, his eyes unreadable.
He was a dangerous enigma.