The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

“He apparently told the officers that he was preparing it himself. If he gets humiliated, he won’t dare to show off or interfere again.”

After tutor Hayden left his advice behind and departed, the servants stared hesitantly at the tomato sauce, deep in thought.
“But ruining the dish entirely is a bit much…”
“She said she’d take responsibility anyway, didn’t she? If she wanted to use us to earn recognition, she should be ready to bear the consequences too.”

One servant picked up the salt shaker and gave it a few firm taps over the finished sauce.
If it was too much, it’d be obvious sabotage—just getting the seasoning wrong should be enough.
At the appointed time, Cynthia entered the kitchen.

“Can I have a taste?”
The servants were briefly flustered, not expecting her to actually show up, but quickly began silently sneering, picturing her flustered and at a loss.
‘Let her get what’s coming.’

Unaware of what the servants had done behind the scenes, Zade the chef confidently presented a plate of ratatouille.
“Please, have a taste. I’m probably the best ratatouille cook in the world.”
Cynthia took a bite and showed a curious expression.

The moment the meddling servants waited for—she smiled brightly.
“Wow, so this is the original flavor. The vegetables are perfectly cooked, and the clean sweetness blends the ingredients together into such a rich umami.”
‘Did she just say it tastes good? And sweet, not salty?’

The servants blinked at one another in confusion at her praise.
Even Zade, who’d tasted it earlier, was confused.
“It didn’t taste like this before... But maybe the acidity from the tomatoes is better balanced now…”

“Did someone add salt? Salt brings out the sweetness when paired with sweet ingredients. I can taste that clean sweetness.”
The servants all turned to stare at the salt shaker.
None of them had learned proper cooking, so they didn’t know that salt could enhance sweetness. Nor did they know how much was too much—so they’d accidentally improved the sauce.
Just then, Cynthia looked at the servants who’d helped with the dish, and put on a deliberately serious face.

“You all seemed so displeased earlier, I honestly came to check in case you tried to ruin the food. I didn’t realize you’d approach this with such sincerity... I was the one being prejudiced. I’m ashamed of myself. I’m really sorry. You’re all excellent cooks.”
At her apology, the face of the servant who’d added the salt turned bright red.
Cynthia smiled innocently.

“The food at the residence has always been delicious. That’s why I wanted to take this opportunity to get to know you—and to thank everyone who works so hard behind the scenes. So, I’ll count on you until the very end.”
As everyone stared at her in stunned silence, Cynthia turned and waved to Zade as she left.
“Sorry about earlier when I said you were a Medeian cook! That was uncalled for!”

After Cynthia disappeared, one servant, unwilling to admit she might be a good person, muttered,
“She’s so fake. Just wait. She’s going to try to take credit for the food and get praised for it.”
Cynthia had to be the bad one. Otherwise, they were the bad ones.

* * *
As he returned from a brief outing, Masera spotted officers exiting the residence.
A colonel and a lieutenant colonel, not yet noticing him, began whispering.

“Tch. Giving brats some cookies? Ridiculous. I nearly broke a sweat pretending to be happy.”
“Captain Cherta’s wife had custom engravings done on luxury watches. Now that’s a real comparison. With a wife like that, promotion is all but guaranteed.”
With the war over, promotions were no longer decided by battlefield merit, and military politics had become a toxic game.

Wives played an important role—they were expected to /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ be capable strategists, expanding their husbands’ networks and influence.
“How’s a bumpkin princess who’s spent her life hiding in the countryside going to play the role of a proper wife?”
“The Brigadier General is someone even the Queen of Medeia keeps her eye on—what’s he doing marrying some washed-up royal?”

“Maybe he’s just planning to use her for a while and divorce her later. He pretends otherwise, but he clearly can’t stand her.”
With a sneer, the colonel flung a box of macarons into the street.
Watching them walk away, Masera pulled out a notebook and scribbled something down.

Then, back at the residence, he handed the list to his adjutant, Diego.
“These two names—remove them from all guest invitations.”
“Did something happen?”

Diego glanced at the macaron box in Masera’s hand.
Had he taken it back after giving it to Cynthia? Or snatched it from a junior officer?
Masera stared coldly at the macarons and said just one word.

“Rude.”
And this wasn’t just a simple matter of not receiving an invitation.
Masera was a national war hero.

To be excluded from his guest list meant you’d been blacklisted—and word would spread fast. In other words, their chances at promotion were as good as dead.
* * *
By dinner, the officers had gathered in the banquet hall.

Among them sat Captain Declan, who openly held a grudge against Cynthia.
Most of the officers weren’t interested in the dinner Cynthia had prepared. They were there to discuss the wasteland development project.
When ratatouille was served, Captain Declan scoffed.

‘So she’s flaunting egalitarian ideals by serving peasant food from Francia. How tired and obvious.’
It was a trick several officers’ wives had used before.
At first, it earned praise. But as more people copied it, the novelty wore off—and worse, it could now come off as patronizing to officers of common birth.

Some of those very officers looked visibly uncomfortable.
Declan seized the opportunity.
“A humble dish, Princess. Is there a reason you chose ratatouille for a banquet?”

She was clearly about to bring up the suffering of Francia’s commoners under the monarchy. A speech all too familiar to banquet regulars.
After all, she was a fallen royal herself—was this some kind of self-flagellation?
But Cynthia responded with a completely unexpected question.

“What even counts as peasant food? Everyone keeps using that phrase. To me, it’s just something delicious.”
Declan didn’t answer right away, so Cynthia continued.
“To answer your question—I picked it because it’s from a story I really like. It’s about a rat with amazing cooking skills who controls a human to make food…”

“A rat? What is this, some kind of plague joke?”
One officer pulled a disgusted face.
‘Come to think of it, it does sound a bit strange.’

With a slight cough, Cynthia briefly summarized the film’s plot.
The officers listened intently. There was something captivating in the way she spoke.
“So, does the rat become a great chef?”

One officer, caught up in the story, even found himself rooting for the rat.
“Of course. The message of the story is ‘Anyone can cook.’ At first, he’s just a disgusting rat—but by the end, you start to see him as a charming and brilliant chef, right?”
“True enough. This dish suddenly feels more special.”

Annoyed by how the mood was shifting, Captain Declan gripped his fork tightly.
“I understand the sentiment behind the dish. Regardless of the type, if it tastes good, it’s good food.”
In other words—meaning was meaningless if the flavor didn’t hold up.

Taste is subjective, after all. With a flourish, he took a bite of ratatouille.
“This is… the flavor…”
It was, honestly, delicious. He couldn’t find anything to criticize, so he trailed off with a serious look.

“…It’s good.”
Then Masera, who’d been sitting quietly as if he weren’t even there, spoke.
“I agree.”

At that, the other officers, gauging the atmosphere, chimed in with praise.
“Thank you for the wonderful meal, Princess.”
Masera gave Cynthia one of his signature polite society smiles.

‘Did he just… call me Princess?’
Cynthia visibly flinched at the word, her shoulders drawn tight.
Masera caught the flash of mortification across her face and let a faint smile curl at his lips.

‘Observation confirms—she visibly suffers every time someone calls her Princess.’
The satisfaction of having found a new way to torment her.