The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

* * *
‘What… what just happened?’
Cynthia glanced sideways at Masera.

He was staring at Helene’s dress with an impassive expression.
‘The Duke of Recanosa snatched it. How childish.’
The duke, who couldn’t stand to lose to Masera over even the pettiest matter, must have interfered and taken it.

“……”
Unconsciously, Masera checked Cynthia’s expression.
He had assumed she would be upset and disappointed—but her face was as calm as always.

“Tsk, can’t believe my sister made the first move. Still, at least we’ve got enough time before our wedding to prepare another one.”
“You seemed to like that dress. Aren’t you upset?”
“Why would I be? We’ll just make a new one. But pick it sincerely this time, okay?”

Then Cynthia tilted her head, puzzled.
“That’s strange. My sister hates copying other people. She always wants something unique—hates trends too. Total Hongdae syndrome.”
“I don’t know what kind of syndrome that is, but it seems the Duke of Recanosa wanted it.”

“Oh, for himself?”
Cynthia came to a completely unfiltered conclusion.
Masera didn’t respond. It wasn’t worth it.

Even if the relationship was purely hostile, the wedding itself was dazzling and beautiful. The entire winter garden was buried in fresh flowers, a breathtaking extravagance.
Cynthia admired the setup as she looked around.
‘Spending that much on a single day? Well, it’s not my money, so whatever. No point in worrying about the rich.’
It’s still economic circulation, after all.

With that in mind, Cynthia rose from her seat. She planned to bring back some cake from the lavish buffet.
Just as she was reaching for a slice, her hand froze.
Among a group of women with striking black hair and commanding auras, a conversation about Helene was taking place—in a foreign language, elegant and measured.

["I assumed she’d be well-educated, being of royal blood. But she’s no different from any common noble’s daughter."]
["She can’t even speak Medeian. No wonder she can’t keep up with us."]
It clearly wasn’t the local language, yet Cynthia heard it as if it had been directly translated.

The “Medeia” they mentioned was one of the dominant colonial powers, ruling over many territories.
‘Now that I think about it, black hair is characteristic of Medeians.’
She remembered hearing that the Duke of Recanosa’s mother was distantly related to Medeia’s royal family.

These women, who were presumably her maternal relatives—also noble-born Medeians—continued their graceful gossip.
["Still, the youngest one does resemble the original royal family’s features."]
["Oh look, there’s the youngest princess now. She’s been quite the topic in society lately, hasn’t she? ‘Cynthia’—that’s one of the Moon Goddess Artemis’ epithets, you know. Like Helene too—named after goddesses."]

‘A topic in society?’
As she returned with the cake, Cynthia tilted her head in curiosity.
What kind of topic? Maybe the scandal at the engagement party had made her notorious.

“Cindy.”
At the familiar voice, Cynthia blinked and turned around.
Carlos, looking polished and well-dressed, smiled at her with his eyes.

“You dressed up all pretty just for me, didn’t you?”
Cynthia glanced down at her outfit, then looked back up and narrowed her eyes slightly.
“No. Women dress up to impress other women.”

Women mostly put effort into their looks for reactions like, “Sis, you look insane,” or “Queen, please step on me”—not for men.
Carlos gave a little cough.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately… You used to be sweet, obedient, always smiling.”

Cynthia sighed. The word obedient in particular got on her nerves.
Then Carlos leaned in and whispered in a low voice.
“Three of your maids are dead, I hear.”

Cynthia smiled again.
“They were smuggling military supplies. Took a lot of effort to make sure it wouldn’t affect the Count’s family.”
“I don’t think you arranged it. If someone had died by accident like before, maybe. But you’ve never had the guts. Probably the brigadier’s doing, over what happened at the engagement.”

Cynthia didn’t respond.
“He’s the kind of cruel man who can kill his bride’s servants without blinking. Do you think he’d treat you any differently?”
A warning, clearly: don’t even think about relying on Masera.

“Cindy, you’ll want to be careful once you’re married. Especially if you end up pregnant. I doubt he’d treat a woman carrying [N O V E L I G H T] his child with any kind of sentiment.”
Under the sunlight, Cynthia stared into the distance, silent for a long moment.
Then she finally spoke.

“Is the bullshit portion of the conversation done? I need to go eat cake.”
“When did I say anything bullshit?”
“Hmm… Wasn’t all that stuff nobody asked for? Something about preferring divorced men with no kids and who obey orders…”

Carlos looked stunned, realizing she hadn’t been listening to him at all.
Meanwhile, Masera had been watching the two of them from a distance.
They were merely talking, but it still made him feel unpleasant. Maybe more than before.

At some point, that pale woman had started to affect his mood.
Clack.
He heard the sound of a plate being set down and turned to see Cynthia, cheeks flushed, smiling brightly.

“You like this kind of cake too, right, Brigadier? Let’s eat together. But it’s frozen solid.”
“How fascinating.”
Masera replied flatly, looking away.

“Now, let’s act friendly again.”
Cynthia, unusually generous, offered him the strawberry from her cake.
Conscious of Carlos, Masera accepted without complaint.

A moment later, the sound of the frozen strawberry cracking between his teeth echoed.
“……”
“Told you it was frozen.”

* * *
Soon, the ceremony ended, and the duke and Helene went inside to change into party outfits for the banquet.
The duke was all smiles, proud of having pulled off a wedding no one else could easily replicate.

Masera, you nobody… You think you can copy this wedding? Even if you tried, it would just be a waste—on a fake.
Helene, unaware of his internal satisfaction, turned to him with gratitude.
“A special dress you prepared yourself… I was really touched.”

Until now, their relationship had been purely businesslike—a typical product of political matchmaking.
Being surrounded by the refined scorn of her Medeian royal in-laws had been an ongoing source of stress.
So this unexpected gesture of sincerity had moved her.

Just for today, Helene allowed herself to believe she was the happiest woman alive. She greeted guests at the banquet one by one.
Amid the congratulations, one of the duke’s maternal relatives made a comment about the dress.
“So that’s a Merisiren wedding dress. I heard it takes years just to place an order.”

“Yes, he was kind enough to go to great lengths for it.”
Helene’s cheeks turned pink.
The lady touched her black hair with elegance and smiled gracefully.

“Yes, I heard Brigadier Visente personally gathered the pearls and diamonds to have it custom-made for his princess. Did he cancel the order? But even if he did, that couldn’t have been easy to get…”
“Madam!”
Someone urgently tried to stop her.

It was clear the comment had been made to embarrass the duke’s house. The dowager duchess turned bright red with fury.
Helene’s face also paled.
Brigadier Visente had that dress made for Cynthia? And the duke gave it to me to wear?

Helene’s clenched hands trembled.
Meanwhile, Cynthia—completely unaware that the dress had been made especially for her—stood in stunned silence, her mouth agape.