In the meeting room, as the impact of the Honorable Saint’s holographic projection gradually faded, the council members regained their composure.
Being High-Level insects, they were all shrewd individuals. If they still did not understand the Council Head’s intentions after a display like that, they would not be fit to sit and speak in this room.
He was setting the stage for the Honorable Saint.
If a dignified Head of the Federal Council could still act as an ordinary female subordinate, one who would be scolded for making a mistake or have his financial authority confiscated by his male master, in front of the Saint, then what about outsiders who had no connection to him at all? Even if some insects were truly blind enough to think that a Saint suffering from amnesia was easy to manipulate, they would now have to carefully weigh whether they could handle the Council Head’s intervention.
The council members exchanged glances and nodded almost imperceptibly.
This was a good thing.
Ultimately, the Saint was only suffering from amnesia, not a genetic regression, and certainly not death.
As long as it was just memory loss, there would be a day of recovery; it was merely a matter of time. The political arena was not like the entertainment industry; there was no such thing as “toxic exclusivity.” For the High-Level insects who truly followed the Council Head and the Saint, a harmonious relationship and an unbreakable political alliance between the couple were the only things that could bring about stable and long-term benefits.
If they were to truly burn bridges, neither side would come out unscathed, and it would only benefit outsiders.
When the meeting concluded, upon learning of his Council Head’s good deeds, the Chief Secretary did not fly into a rage for the first time; instead, he felt a genuine sense of relief.
“Exactly! That is how it should be done!”
What did it matter if one kowtowed and acted servile toward the Saint?
If an ordinary female insect allowed himself to be manipulated or swindled by a male, the public would only curse him for being spineless. But when a High-Level insect bowed for love, obediently accepted a scolding, and handed over the family’s financial power, what was that called?
That was called the demeanor of the privileged High-Level class!
In that instant, the Chief Secretary devised countless public relations strategies.
Although his boss could not even use honorifics properly and was frequently complained about by the old fossils in the Senate due to etiquette issues, resulting in an endless stream of messes for the Chief Secretary to clean up, he possessed no demeanor to speak of. But did that matter?
It did not matter.
It was PR; those who know, know.
It served both to reassure supporters who had been wavering due to the rumors of internal conflict between the couple and to provide a step down and an explanation for the High-Level insects dissatisfied with the Proposal 43 incident.
Perfect!
As for the issue of frozen bank accounts…
In this era of the Star Sea, the Imperial-era horror stories of female insects left homeless after divorce because their male masters seized all their assets no longer existed. Any female insect with the capital to marry a male would certainly have anonymous accounts in neutral civilization banks, would they not?
It was not about guarding against the male master; even if just for unmentionable reasons, one would have to open a few, right?
Considering the necessary daily expenses for the Council Head’s social interactions, the Chief Secretary added a word of caution: “By the way, I assume you still have some private savings?”
Silence.
A deathly, suffocating silence.
“…?”
The Chief Secretary froze on the spot, looking up and glancing sideways, his expression indescribable as he stared at his superior.
No, my friend.
How do you manage to be cunning when you should not be, yet act like an honest insect when you should be playing it smart?
Something was wrong.
Something was very wrong!
“Wait, let me process this.” Alton Marlow’s expression shifted, his eyes sharpening. “You are not actually thinking of taking advantage of the current Saint’s vulnerability to harbor ulterior motives, are you?”
Igris spoke the plain truth: “I do not know.”
He was neither guilty nor timid about it.
The Chief Secretary: “?”
The Chief Secretary, thirty-five years old and unmarried due to his busy workload, felt his mouth twitch. A surge of tooth-aching frustration washed over him, but he forced himself to reason with his bizarre superior: “Like is like, and dislike is dislike. What do you mean by ‘I do not know’?”
He had actually said it!
He really said the word!
The Chief Secretary’s expression was complex. Honestly, why was he, a long-term bachelor who had never even held a male’s hand, here discussing matters of the heart with his boss?
Weren’t the privileged High-Level insects supposed to be devoid of emotion?
Could you at least try to be a little devoid of them?
He prepared himself for a long-winded debate, but the Council Head did not even blink, responding naturally: “I do like him.”
Igris gave him a strange look, as if he were looking at an idiot: “I am a female insect too. If it were you, and you had a beautiful male master at home who was compatible with you in every way, would you not like him?”
The Chief Secretary: “…” He could not argue with that.
Indeed.
Whether male or female, as long as one’s sexual orientation was normal, one would naturally feel attracted to an opposite-sex individual with outstanding appearance and genes. This was an instinct carved into the genes of almost all species. Furthermore, as they were recognized by the Federation as the top-tier couple, it would be strange if they did not have mutual affection.
But did liking someone hold any real weight?
Not necessarily.
For the privileged class, personal emotions were like a ticking time bomb.
As long as there was no emotional entanglement, both parties could have new lovers on the side without negatively affecting their cooperation. In fact, unnecessary emotions were more likely to indirectly influence their thinking and judgment, complicating a simple, pure political marriage.
Partners were hard to find, but compatible political partners were even rarer.
The shrewd High-Level elite would never engage in a losing business transaction like trading a partner for a lover.
The Chief Secretary frowned, blunt: “What exactly are you thinking?”
Igris pondered for a long time before answering seriously: “I do not know.”
Before the Chief Secretary’s patience could completely run out, the Council Head rubbed his ears, his tone lazy and casual, as if he were discussing the pleasant weather: “Regardless, if you have the time, remember to draft a contingency plan.”
“…”
The Chief Secretary steadied himself, asking stubbornly: “What kind of contingency plan?”
A plan for when the Saint freezes his banking privileges again? Or a post-event plan for Proposal 43?
Faced with the Chief Secretary’s self-deceptive gaze, the black-haired insect gave him a look that clearly asked if he was not in his right mind. He replied as if it were obvious: “Of course, a contingency plan for when I successfully win the Saint over, only for him to refuse to acknowledge it once he recovers his memory, or a plan for if I fail to win him over, and things become awkward once he recovers.”
Fine.
Since the Council Head had already anticipated the possibility of failure, there was nothing more for him, as a secretary, to say.
The Chief Secretary rubbed his temples, discussing the general content of the plans with the Council Head with a heavy heart. Before leaving, he could not help but ask one last thing: “If you do win the Saint over, but he recovers his memory and refuses to acknowledge you, what will you do?”
Considering this man’s temperament, he would not do something like imprisoning the Saint, would he?
The Chief Secretary felt a wave of panic, but the insect he was staring at could not be bothered to entertain him further. He waved his hand dismissively and walked away.
Sunset.
The Orwell main residence.
Noah Villoria sat on the steps of the courtyard, staring blankly at the evening glow on the horizon, his gaze passing through the wind chimes hanging under the eaves.
Twenty-two years ago.
Noah Villoria was six.
Early winter.
The tiny male youngling wore his hair in small pigtails, sitting obediently on a small stool, eyes fixed intently on a small cake sitting on the stone table nearby. His eyes were wide and round, like a newborn fawn, his innocent face filled with a childlike longing for sweets.
Atticus Villoria stroked the young male’s head.
“Noah, remember this: to gain, one must first give. Your talent destined you to be the target of countless High-Level insects. Every defeat in a long-term game stems from a lack of self-control; an insect manipulated by desire will inevitably be consumed by its own desires in the process of chasing them.”
“You must learn to restrain your desires.”
Little Noah asked, not quite understanding: “So, Father, am I not allowed to eat the cake?”
“Three hours.”
Atticus Villoria told him: “Father has something to take care of and will be away for a while. There is only you and your cake here. After three hours, when I return, if you have not eaten this cake, I will reward you with two extra cakes.”
“Sometimes, temporary patience is for the sake of a greater harvest.”
The wind blew through the wind chimes under the eaves, emitting a crisp, clear sound.
The young Saint seemed to sense something. He looked up from the dusty depths of his memory and locked eyes with the silhouette walking toward him against the light. The latter crouched down in front of him, a smile lingering in his eyes, and wagged his index finger in front of him: “My Saint? Since you were planning to move back in, why did you not tell me?”
Noah Villoria: “…”
He shifted aside and countered: “Stop playing word games. I came to check your accounts; I did not say I was moving back in.”
“Is that so?” Igris sighed, feigning regret, and asked a question to which he already knew the answer: “Then, what did you find?”
The Saint looked up, meeting his gaze. He tensed his face, cold and serious: “Do not spend money recklessly in the future.”
“Alright.”
The Council Head lowered his gaze, his pupils filled with a soft smile as he asked: “What about the letter of apology? Do you still want it?”
It took Noah Villoria a few seconds to react, realizing that the apology letter the man mentioned was the one he had promised to write while they were at the hospital.
“…I do.”
Then, he watched as the man took a small notebook filled with handwriting from his storage device and handed it to him with the solemnity of a student submitting an assignment.
As if it had been premeditated for a long time.
The Saint pinched his slightly burning ears, took the letter, and lowered his head, flipping through it to hide his reaction. He inspected it perfunctorily for a moment and nodded: “This will do.” Before the other could respond, the young male hastily shoved the letter into his storage device and shifted aside, inching away without a trace.
“I am leaving now.”
Night fell.
In the blink of an eye, the lop-eared rabbit nimbly darted back into the bushes and disappeared into the night.
The black-haired insect lowered his gaze, looking at his own empty hands. The regret in his eyes solidified, and he muttered to himself: “Was I too impatient?”
What should he do?
Igris did not rush into the house.
Most High-Level female insects retained a territorial consciousness from the primitive era, instinctively rejecting any outsider who appeared on their territory, except for their male master. It was precisely for this reason that the service insects of the Orwell family had a separate villa to live in, appearing only when work was necessary.
The estate was empty.
Silence reigned.
The black-haired insect leaned against the wall, listlessly watching the crescent moon that had suddenly burst out from between the branches. He stood there idle for a while before lazily rising to head inside.
The wind blew through the wind chimes under the eaves, emitting a crisp, clear sound.
The Council Head turned around, sensing something.
The thick clouds were blown away by the wind, and moonlight passed through the dense shade of the courtyard, falling on a small suitcase and on the tranquil, almost obedient face of the young male.
Seeming not to have expected the female to still be in the courtyard, and consequently being caught red-handed, the Saint was silent for a moment. He wrapped his coat tighter, calmly put down the suitcase, and justified himself: “I did not bring any luggage when I came over earlier, so I was not moving back in.”
“Now is when I am moving back in.”
He lowered his eyes, shifting his gaze away, feeling slightly guilty.
In his heart, he felt slightly insecure: Father said that if you hold out for three hours, you can get three cakes. This time, I held out for two hours, so I should be able to get two cakes, right?