The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

On the other hand, Brigadier Steve, who had already intended to sabotage the operation by withdrawing his funds, smirked in satisfaction.

He and Masera had been long-standing rivals.
‘Starting with the least promising mountain range? Does he really believe there’s oil there? He’s digging his own grave.’
“No need to hold onto regrets,” he said aloud, rising from his seat. Then, lowering his voice just enough for only those around him to hear, he added:

“It’s bound to fail anyway. They’re obviously planning to drag things out and bleed us for money.”
Hearing that, even those who had been on the fence made up their minds to pull their investments.
Given how much Brigadier Steve had invested, one would expect this to deal a serious blow—but Masera remained completely unfazed.

Meanwhile, Cynthia was inwardly sneering at them.
‘Soon, you'll all be desperate to rewind time. This moment will haunt you, you fools.’
* * *

After the banquet, I trailed after Masera, hesitating the whole way.
‘What should I even say? Should I thank him? Even if he only played the part of a doting fiancé for appearances’ sake? Or ask what his real motive is? Or tell him to stop calling me “princess” because it makes me cringe? But seriously, why does he trust me?’
I was still lost in thought when Masera suddenly stopped walking, and I bumped straight into his back.

“Ow, ow.”
He looked down at me, rubbing my nose, with those twilight-gray eyes of his.
“Are you planning to follow me into the room?”

“Yes.”
I nodded without thinking, and immediately regretted it when I saw his already expressionless face darken further.
“I mean, I have something to say.”

“Say it.”
“It’s gone now.”
My thoughts were a jumbled mess. I would’ve had everything sorted out by the time we reached the door.
“Besides your intuition, do you have any other evidence? I’ve already acted on your word and caused quite a stir, so I want to be certain.”

Masera—who usually spoke only in statements—surprisingly asked a question.
‘I’m a modern woman from the future, and this world is built on real history and geography, so of course I’m right.’
Yeah, no. Say that and I’ll end up locked in a padded room.

Instead, I gave him a concrete piece of information.
“There’s a document my mother left behind that mentions a ‘hidden inheritance.’”
It ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) wasn’t a lie.

Back when I was a maid, I had once glimpsed a confidential Bariesa royal document while cleaning the Count’s room.
The servants didn’t bother keeping it secured, assuming we didn’t understand formal language.
“…The hidden inheritance shall be passed down to Princess Margarita. It is left in a place only she would know…”

The Count himself didn’t seem to know exactly what it was.
But I knew that the inheritance was the oil buried in the Nox region.
In reality, it wasn’t discovered until a decade later—when, just as the exploration budget was about to be exhausted, a quake hit the least promising mountain range and revealed oil deposits.

I’d just saved them ten years of wasted funds. How could they even consider letting a miracle like me slip away?
But I couldn’t even brag about it. It was so frustrating.
“I think it was left for future generations, since the technology at the time wasn’t advanced enough to extract it.”

“If,” he said, stepping closer to me.
“If I trust you completely and things don’t go well—what will you do then?”
Did he mean if the development failed? Or if I turned out to be conspiring with the Queensguards to use him?

Or… if he discovered I wasn’t really royalty?
“I’ll apologize.”
I looked down at my feet with a gloomy expression.

“And I’ll take responsibility as best I can.”
That’s why I gave him the location.
Even if he dumped me before I had the chance to really seduce him—if the development succeeded—I wouldn’t have any right to complain. As long as he let me live. But I would still secure some money to disappear with.

“How?”
His breath brushed my bangs, light as a whisper.
“I’ll work hard to repay the damages. With money… or with my body…”

Before I even finished the sentence, I saw his boots take a sharp step back.
“Please refrain from saying such vulgar things at this hour, and especially not in front of my door.”
“I peeled onions in the kitchen and—what?”

I looked up at Masera.
Whenever he talked to me, he always wore expressions he never showed to anyone else. Now was no different.
“A princess should not speak so flippantly.”

There it was again! Trying to make me cringe.
“I just… feel awkward being called ‘princess.’”
“Then what should I call you?”

“A sweet nickname, like pudding or chocolate…”
“Isn’t that even more awkward and uncomfortable?”
Honestly, I was fine with everything else, but for some reason, the “princess” title bothered me. Maybe because it triggered my guilt?

“Then… should we call each other by name?”
“That feels even more unpleasant.”
He seemed to decide that further conversation was a waste of time and moved to go inside.

I grabbed his coat and tugged.
“Wait! Masera! I have something else to say!”
“Keep it to yourself, Miss Cynthia.”

It was the moment we both realized that calling each other by name wasn’t working either.
I yanked the doorknob he was trying to shut.
“Wait, wait, you’ll crush my fingers! My hand!”

The door, which had stood like a wall, loosened slightly at the urgency in my voice.
Still clinging to the crack, I whispered like a mosquito.
“Thank you for trusting me… and for being on my side today…”

There was a brief silence.
Through the door, I spotted his desk—and a stack of three macaron boxes.
“Hey! Are those the macarons I bought? Did you steal them from the other officers? You greedy thief!”

“…Enough gratitude. Please leave now, princess.”
His hand slipped through the gap in the door to wave me off like he was shooing a bug, then slammed the door shut.
‘That man would still be as hard and dry as a diatomite bath mat even if he became the “regretful male lead.” I’m not leaving until I turn him into a plush microfiber one!’

I turned around, vowing silently to myself.
* * *
The next morning, the officers’ kitchen was unusually quiet.

A servant returning for her shift sighed as she tied on her apron.
“See? She doesn’t actually care about us. She only thanks us when it’s convenient…”
Just then, another servant urgently hissed and brought a finger to her lips.

“What?”
The puzzled woman looked up—and jumped in surprise.
Behind the shelf was a head of snow-white hair peeking out.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Why so startled?”
Cynthia asked, her eyes red and swollen. For some reason, she was peeling onions.
“N-no, that’s not what I meant…”

“If the brigadier neglected us that much, I get why you were upset.”
“That’s not it at all!”
The servant nearly cried.

Cynthia, having shown up in the kitchen, began chatting excitedly—about how everyone at the banquet had been amazed, and how the major general’s eyes had reddened as he remembered his father while eating the ratatouille.
Chef Zade, overwhelmed by her endless chatter, sarcastically told her to peel onions if she was that bored—and she actually started peeling them.
“I swear, Major General Isaac said…”

Just as she was about to start her story again, a group of soldiers marched in, carrying boxes of cookies.
“These are gifts of appreciation from Major General Isaac to the chef and kitchen staff. He said last night’s meal left a deep impression, and he hopes to visit again.”
The soldiers delivered the message, saluted, and marched out.

It was proof that Cynthia hadn’t tried to claim all the credit for herself.
The kitchen staff stared in stunned silence.
Realizing they’d misunderstood her, the servants looked ashamed—until one finally stepped forward and apologized.

“I’m truly sorry for how rudely I’ve acted, Your Highness. I’m ashamed of myself for judging you so hastily.”
One person’s courage led to everyone else chiming in to apologize as well.
“If you’re sorry, come peel onions with me. There’s way too many, and they’re insanely spicy.”

At Cynthia’s words, the staff gathered around her, sniffling as they peeled onions together.
It was a scene of teary reconciliation—but the real tears were definitely from the onions.
‘Yes! I’ve won over the kitchen crew too. Time to start demanding midnight snacks regularly.’

Cynthia beamed, finally able to relax and enjoy some comfort food without shame.
At that moment, Dalia came into the kitchen, face flushed from running.
“Your Highness, there you are. You have a visitor… Why are you peeling onions in tears?”

“I peel onions when I’m sad. Who’s the visitor?”
“It’s Major Rodriguez.”