The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

‘Why is that?’
Masera sat lost in thought.

Whenever he let down his guard, things moved according to Cynthia’s intentions. By the time he came to his senses, everything had somehow ended up just as she said.
Even their sudden “honeymoon expedition” to Medeia had been her doing.
[“The youngest is much more presentable than the elder sister. She’s sociable, and her demeanor and expressions are delightful.”]
[“The elder ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) one only knows how to keep up formalities. She’s stiff as a board—completely useless. How will she ever blend into high society like that?”]

Cynthia had understood everything that Madam Hills and Madam Beraché—sisters of the Grand Madam—had said in Medeian. But for now, she decided to pretend she hadn’t.
Helene, realizing from their tone that the two were comparing her with Cynthia, added with a smile,
“They do call it the land of gentlemen. I’d like to visit Medeia myself.”

But Madam Beraché, seasoned in the ways of courtly etiquette, could easily tell the comment was surface-level flattery and asked,
“Do you know why it’s called the land of gentlemen?”
“Because they value culture, elegance, and manners,” Helene replied confidently.

‘Wrong. That’s a distortion.’
Cynthia bit back a smile, recalling what she had read.
The term actually originated as a euphemism when the wealthy gentry class—between nobles and commoners—became global trendsetters. Medeia, in particular, had become known for its abundance of gentry men in black hats, suits, and canes.

Traditional nobles had never been fond of the nickname.
[“Pretending to know when she knows nothing.”]
Madam Hills clicked her tongue in Medeian, mocking her while feigning admiration.

Cynthia raised her glass with a smile.
“That’s right, sister. Countries that failed to show proper respect to the Kingdom of Medeia didn’t survive. Medeia even used to send fleets to conduct etiquette education, you know.”
At the dangerously thin-veiled joke, both Madam Hills and Madam Beraché burst into hearty laughter.

Not understanding the punchline but not wanting to be left out, the Count of Queensguard and his two sons forced awkward laughs as well.
Masera did not laugh. He was too busy debating whether he had to eat the sardine head buried in his pie.
“What a delightful princess, truly.”
“Oh, I adore people with a good sense of humor. Her Majesty the Queen also loves comedy and often invites jesters to her parties.”

Helene could not comprehend why Cynthia was the one receiving all the attention.
How could a lowborn maid know any of this?
Even jokes require knowledge to land. Without it, they easily become rude.

Riding the wave of laughter, Helene put on a cordial smile and spoke.
“Cynthia. It seems you’ve taken quite an interest in Medeia and have studied it. Then I assume you’d also be interested in eel jelly? You look like you’d enjoy it. Would you like to try?”
Helene had already tasted the eel jelly herself and was certain Cynthia would react with horror.

Eel jelly was made by chopping eels and forming them into jelly—its appearance was grotesque, its texture revolting, and its fishy stench overwhelming.
“That’s the one I’ve only heard rumors about? You’ve tried it before, sister?”
“Yes. Why don’t you give it a taste too?”

Cynthia looked straight at Helene.
Believing Cynthia was uncomfortable, Helene mocked her inwardly.
‘Let’s see you try to swallow it while hiding your disgust. If you don’t throw up the moment it hits your mouth, that’ll be a miracle.’

“I’ll pass. I’d rather have more of the sardine pie that sees the stars. It’s really delicious.”
To Helene’s surprise, Cynthia declined without hesitation.
Helene had assumed she would accept just to gain favor with the noblewomen. Her refusal caught her completely off guard.

“Why? You claim to love Medeia so much…”
“It’s a matter of taste. Sister, you don’t eat snowflower broccoli, our hometown’s specialty, do you? Does that mean you don’t love your birthplace?”
Helene, unable to come up with a retort, clenched her skirt tightly.

Cynthia shuddered just thinking about the fishy flavor. She had eaten enough cheap canned fish in her past life—why force herself to become a fan of bizarre foods when delicious ones were already available?
The Grand Madam, having watched the exchange, waved her hand.
“Helene, don’t force her. I can’t eat that either. Even the locals tend to avoid it.”

‘So she really did offer it just to make me miserable?’
Helene clenched her fists and barely managed to keep her smile.
Afterward, Edford tried the eel jelly with dramatic bravado—and turned pale before running out of the room.

As a joke, Cynthia offered some to Masera too. He quietly ate the entire thing and then commented,
“Well… I’ve certainly never tasted anything quite like this.”
* * *

“Father, what exactly did you tell Cynthia to do?”
After the meal, Helene stormed into her father’s study.
She was convinced he had ordered Cynthia to study up on Medeia and curry favor with the ducal family.

“What do you mean?”
“Those picky people are practically smitten with her!”
“And is that bad?”

The Count of Queensguard raised his shoulders in genuine confusion.
Even if it was a disguise, she was still his daughter for the time being. If the ducal family thought highly of her, that was a gain, not a loss.
“Helene, it seems you haven’t been getting along well with your in-laws. Or with the duke, for that matter.”

“How am I supposed to get along with people who see me as inferior by default? They’re uptight, blunt, and half the time I can’t even tell if they’re joking or mocking me!”
Before coming to the capital, she hadn’t realized it.
Her father had always told her how valuable royal blood was—how people would go to extremes to obtain it.

But that value only applied to ownership. It didn’t guarantee equal treatment.
“They’re proud royals from a great power. You should’ve been more endearing. Cynthia, perhaps because of her time as a maid, is excellent at winning favor. That’s something worth learning.”
“You want me to learn from a lowly maid?”

“Servants often possess the most exceptional social skills.”
For someone like Helene, who had never bowed her head and had been pampered her entire life, that suggestion was an attack on her pride.
The Count stroked his chin and mused,

“Still… was that girl always so shamelessly bold?”
“How would I know? Do you think I’ve ever paid attention to a mere maid’s personality?”
They’d lived in different worlds—she had no idea what Cynthia had originally been like.

“The idea to study Medeia probably came from Brigadier Visente. As a war orphan who climbed from the bottom, he knows how to navigate society well.”
The Count gave her a lazy smile.
“We just have to make good use of the favor others earn through hard work. As always. Don’t let petty inferiority and jealousy ruin you—remember my words.”

Meanwhile, Carlos sat with a glass of whiskey, deep in thought.
‘He had a dress custom-made for her… one that costs as much as a house?’
Maybe it was for show, but a man had instincts.

‘There’s a chance those two might actually develop feelings.’
If they fell in love, there’d be no coming back.
“Of course, once you’ve gotten what you want, you’ll return her to me. By then, you’ll be leading a massive railway project.”

That had been one of the conditions the Count offered.
But Carlos had never told even his father one important detail.
‘No, this all lines up too perfectly. The engagement, too…’

Back when he’d taken Cynthia to a casino, they’d won a massive amount.
The next day, when he went alone, he lost it all. But when he took her again, they won it back—as if by magic. Yet no matter how many times he tried, they never won beyond a certain amount.
Cynthia had once said something cryptic:

“If you use luck for gambling, you’ll lose something else that’s precious.”
‘I’ll get her back. Especially if she’s really that lucky.’
* * *

Eventually, night fell.
It was finally time to share a bed with Masera.
If either of them ran away now, the “friendly, soon-to-be-wed couple” narrative they had worked so hard to build would completely collapse.

Masera seemed to be thinking the same.
“I can’t be the kind of thoughtless fiancé who leaves his betrothed alone in an unfamiliar place.”
“Yes, and I won’t leave you either. Let’s both pretend to be people who care deeply.”

To be honest, it was a little scary being alone.
After entering the room with Masera, she stared at the bed, which was about the size of a schoolyard.
“Look how big the bed is. If we sleep on opposite ends, it’s practically like sleeping in separate rooms.”

“I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
So much for trying to reassure him—he still seemed wary.
Removing his uniform jacket, Masera warned her flatly,

“Don’t even think about touching me.”
“Do you not trust me?”
“No.”

…That line feels like it was meant for me.
Will we make it through the night in one piece?