The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

‘Well, she’s going to be his wife, so of course he’s taking her side.’
Captain Declan # Nоvеlight # grumbled to himself as he watched Masera speak kindly to Cynthia.
To publicly rebuke one’s future wife was the same as spitting in one’s own face.

Among soldiers, a wife was considered a supporter in public and a supreme commander at home. It was a phenomenon born from the fact that most officers married up.
The captain narrowed his eyes and scanned the reactions of the other officers.
One officer, silently tasting the ratatouille, suddenly looked at Cynthia with a grave expression.

He held the rank of major general—above brigadier—and was Masera’s superior.
“This doesn’t taste like the usual ratatouille.”
Major General Isaac Rodriguez was known for being stern, exacting, and sharp-tongued.

Those who invited him to dinners in hopes of gaining favor would present all manner of delicacies, yet not once had he offered praise.
‘A man like him wouldn’t be swayed by sentiment. Food holds no meaning for him. He’s going to say this dish is unfit for a formal dinner.’
Captain Declan set down his fork, bracing himself for the brutal critique.

With his signature sharp expression, the general spoke.
“It tastes just like the one my father used to make. He was from Francia.”
Still holding his fork, Isaac closed his eyes and let out a long sigh, as if soaking in the memory, before opening them again.

“It’s been a long time since I remembered those days. Did the princess make it herself? I would appreciate the recipe.”
It was a tremendous compliment—especially from someone known only for his harsh judgments.
A nearby servant furrowed their brow slightly as they glanced at Cynthia, expecting her to take credit for the meal.

But Cynthia firmly shook her head.
“The chef at the officers’ quarters made it. He’s from Francia, and an excellent cook. I’ll make sure to get you the recipe later.”
It was common knowledge that chefs prepared the banquets, yet most noblewomen claimed to have overseen everything personally.
The general, slightly taken aback by her honest reply, wiped his mouth with a napkin and said,

“No need. I’d prefer to eat what that Francian chef makes himself. Would you invite me for a meal from time to time?”
It was the first time the general—who frequently turned down invitations—asked to be invited.
“Of course. You can even live here if you want. I’ll take you around the world with cuisine.”

At Cynthia’s unexpected answer, the corner of the general’s mouth twitched slightly—surprising for a man who looked like he’d never smile.
Captain Declan felt a surge of unease.
‘Did she research the general’s Francian background? She’s no ordinary woman. I underestimated her because of that mild-looking face—that was a mistake.’

In truth, it had been pure coincidence. But fate seemed strangely fond of siding with Cynthia.
Meanwhile, Masera—who had just been reveling in the idea of finding new ways to torment Cynthia—was now staring stiffly down at his plate.
“Ah, Brigadier’s plating looks different. It’s shaped like a heart!”

One clueless officer blurted it out loud enough for everyone to hear.
Masera’s vegetables had been stacked in a heart shape.
He immediately shook his head firmly.

“Coincidence. It happened by low probability.”
“What does that even mean?”
Ignoring the flustered officer, Masera’s eyes met Cynthia’s.

“Aww, don’t be shy. I made just yours in a heart shape!”
Meeting his gaze, Cynthia smiled brightly and shot him a finger heart. Masera turned his head away sharply.
‘So this was your plan all along.’

She wasn’t sunlight—she was a blinding ultraviolet ray.
Masera couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been outmaneuvered. He gulped down his water.
“Haha, it already feels like newlywed bliss. How lovely.”

“To be marrying such a bright and charming woman—I'm envious. I bet you'll smile every day.”
Thinking their relationship was going well, the officers began offering their cheerful congratulations.
They assumed Masera had turned away out of bashfulness.

‘Just as planned.’
Watching Masera’s pained expression, Cynthia smiled darkly.
They had successfully portrayed a harmonious couple, earned Masera’s superior’s favor, and served a delicious meal—by all measures, it had been a successful dinner.

And she had also gotten her petty revenge on Masera for calling her “princess” on purpose.
‘Someday, like that little rat who earned recognition as a chef, all the hatred and prejudice will disappear.’
She had once been mocked and reviled for her appearance—called a “creepy white rat.”

Now, that same appearance was being used as proof she was a descendant of the “Great Frost Queen.”
Watching the gentle snowfall outside the window, Cynthia smiled.
* * *

Dinner ended, and only the officers involved in business matters remained at the table.
Having enjoyed a satisfying meal, the officers were in high spirits.
That was why important discussions were often held over dinner.

Brigadier Steve looked at Cynthia and asked,
“We were about to begin discussing business—will you be all right? It might be dull for a lady unfamiliar with such matters.”
It was a subtle way of suggesting she wasn’t qualified to be part of this conversation and should excuse herself.

“I’m fine. I think I should at least know what’s going on, shouldn’t I?”
At her reply, Captain Declan openly displayed his discomfort.
“She’s not even the mistress of the house yet. Is it appropriate to expose confidential business matters in front of her? I worry about this as an investor.”

Given that they weren’t yet married, it was a valid concern.
“Haha, true. Even with a date set, you never know until they’re at the altar.”
Brigadier Steve added a jab that could linger unpleasantly if dwelled upon.

‘Can’t really say, “We’re getting married even if we die,” now, can I? For now, I’ll retreat—for Masera’s sake.’
Just as Cynthia was about to stand up, Masera spoke.
“Unless one of us disappears, we’re getting married. So you don’t have to worry.”

Was that really necessary to say in such a menacing tone?
Cynthia’s eyes widened. It wasn’t much different from her own mental quip: “Even if I die, we’re getting married.”
“She has no actual authority, does she?”

Captain Declan’s cutting remark was met with a slow shake of the head from Masera.
“You’re mistaken. The ‘princess’ holds authority in this business too.”
‘Thanks for backing me up, but could you please stop with that title?’

At the oddly forceful use of “princess,” Cynthia gave a slight twitch of her shoulder and threw him a sharp look.
Masera paid her no mind and continued.
“So I plan to begin with a survey of the mountain range, according to Her Highness’s suggestion.”

Brigadier Steve asked with irritation,
“What does that mean? If the princess interferes without proper qualification, I’ll be pulling my investment—unless she proves trustworthy.”
His greedy eyes made it clear he was expecting material assurance.

The officers aligned with Steve glanced at one another, ready to follow his lead and threaten to withdraw their investment.
But Masera didn’t even blink.
“She’s fully qualified. The Nox region was recently registered under joint ownership between Her Highness and myself. Without her permission, we can’t even begin.”

At the revelation that Cynthia now held business authority, all eyes turned toward her.
Given recent scandals, it seemed Count Queensguard had transferred the rights before the wedding.
‘Wait—Masera registered Nox under joint ownership with me? Why would he…?’

Cynthia blinked in surprise.
It felt as though she were being tested.
A test of her luck—and whether she truly stood by his side.

It seemed he was showing trust first in order to confirm hers.
“I accept the statements of intent to withdraw,” came Masera’s low voice.
“Who cares whether it’s hers or not? I’m staying. It’s an unprecedented opportunity.”

It was Major General Isaac who spoke—the highest-ranking officer present.
Though many had voiced their opposition, none of them had truly intended to back out of the venture—and now, caught off guard, they were left scrambling.