The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

“…I heard Count Visente was an old man?”
Edford mumbled vacantly, as if in a dream.

Masera tilted his head slightly, his face completely unreadable.
“He traded debt for a title. That rumor’s old. Maybe the countryside just gets news slower?”
It was true that Count Visente used to be an aging man drowning in debt.

But that was only before he sold off the title.
* * *
The household staff were thrown into confusion when the “damn white rat” suddenly became the “Lady of the Count’s House” overnight.

“Is it true? Cynthia’s the Count’s real daughter?”
“You know that drunk who supposedly died falling down the stairs a few years ago? They say he kidnapped her out of greed for royal blood.”
“Then why’d he send her here to work as a maid?”

“Probably couldn’t afford to raise her. Figured he’d ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ make her earn her keep until she was old enough to marry off.”
“…So what happens to us now?”
The servants who had tormented Cynthia for years were now filled with dread.

One of them tried to sound nonchalant.
“She’ll probably let it go. She’s stupidly kind.”
“Right?”

A few of them headed to Cynthia’s room under the excuse of helping her get ready.
They cast furtive glances her way, but Cynthia didn’t seem interested in revenge.
“Um… Cynd—no, I mean, Lady Cynthia. Please forgive all the rude things I said.”

One maid, who at least had some conscience, bowed and apologized.
Another maid nudged her elbow with a look that said, Why the hell would you bring that up now?
“What?”
Cynthia turned to her with her usual radiant expression.

The apologizing maid wiped away a tear.
“For everything. For making you feel small, for the nasty things I said… I’m truly sorry.”
“Okay.”

That was all she said—and then silence fell over the room like a heavy curtain.
Somewhere along the way, Cynthia had started giving off an aura that made it difficult to treat her carelessly.
She used to always wear a timid frown, but now she smiled no matter what anyone said. And if someone crossed the line? She’d just stare at them—smiling—without saying a word, following them silently all day.

That’s when the bullying began to slow down. People started to realize she wasn’t someone you could push anymore.
“This will be the first and last time I get dressed up by you girls, huh?”
After she finished dressing, Cynthia handed a small folded note to the only maid who had apologized.

“You should read this in private.”
After Cynthia left, the maid carefully unfolded the note when no one was watching.
If you want to live, run away from this house the moment I’m gone.

* * *
“Come now, Cynthia. Time to greet your future husband.”
The Count of Queensguard took Cynthia’s hand with the air of a loving father.

“Yes.”
Cynthia smiled.
She’d always been beautiful even in a plain maid’s dress—but in a fine gown, she looked like a noblewoman without a trace of doubt.

Her expression was innocent, serene. She’d become more inquisitive lately, but still obedient.
The kind of woman high-ranking men would be drawn to.
Plenty of use left in her.

To the Count, she was now the perfect tool.
Wearing a satisfied smile, he walked up to Colonel Masera del Visente.
“Thank you for making the long journey, Colonel Visente.”

“Yes.”
Masera gave a brief reply as he looked down at Cynthia.
Cynthia looked up at him—he was significantly taller.

His eyes were like lakes mirroring a lavender sunset, or perhaps auroras only visible in the far northern regions.
Their gazes locked, something silent passing between them.
Masera’s eyes drifted down to the red necklace around Cynthia’s neck. He paused there, as if recalling something.

Farther away, Carlos was watching the scene with the same stunned look as Edford.
He had sent Cynthia into this situation believing Colonel Visente was some old man with money.
That way, even if Cynthia ended up in a marriage, she’d never fall in love with her husband—or betray him.

But that man… was young and absurdly handsome.
Father lied to me.
The Count had manipulated even his own son—tricking him into handing over Cynthia without protest.

Even so, Carlos was still confident.
Cynthia would never betray me.
Her behavior and tone had changed lately, yes—but she was still Cynthia.

Frightened, naive, ignorant. Someone who only knew him.
“Young master… I’ll never forget this grace until the day I die…”
The trembling vow Cynthia made after killing someone by accident—that would never change.

Meanwhile, Cynthia was staring at Masera’s dazzling appearance, convinced beyond all doubt:
I knew it. I made the right choice.
That unique presence, that radiant glow—even from a distance.

There was no way he wasn’t the male lead.
Even if she was deceiving such a beautiful man right now… maybe, just maybe, he’d forgive her later if she sincerely apologized and explained.
Cynthia smiled brightly at him.

“Hello. I’m Cynthia Queensguard.”
“Masera del Visente.”
His reply was short—but his smile was warm.

He reached out his hand to her and politely offered his arm.
“I’d like to get out of this wretched town as soon as possible.”
Polite in tone, rude in words—what an odd man.

Cynthia placed her hand atop his, thinking to herself.
Just then, someone approached them.
“Lady Cynthia.”

It was Anita—the maid who had never joined in the bullying and always did her work quietly.
She handed Cynthia a parasol.
“The capital has strong sunlight, unlike this gloomy place.”

“Thank you.”
She knew I’m sensitive to the sun?
Cynthia gave her a smiling nod and leaned in to whisper something.

Anita’s eyes briefly widened—then returned to her usual blank expression.
“…Understood.”
Cynthia climbed into the luxurious carriage escorted by Masera and waved through the window.

“I’ll write to you! Take care, Dad! You too, Brother, Sister!”
She looked just like a beloved daughter saying farewell to her family.
Carlos and Edford stood silently blinking—but the Count and Helene waved back as naturally as if it were real.

“Write me the moment you arrive, my jewel.”
Helene I could understand—but that man? He was something else entirely. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a doting father.
Cynthia shuddered and turned her head away.

After her departure, not long had passed before the sound of gunfire echoed through the mansion.
A few days later, the entire staff at the Count’s estate had been replaced.
That was how the Count of Queensguard handled “loose ends.”

* * *
It took exactly three days to reach the capital.
It was the first time I’d ever left the Count’s estate. The world outside was fascinating.

The architecture of the Lutemia Republic… the geography, the landscape—it all felt strangely familiar.
Did the original author base this world on real geography?
Masera didn’t speak much. Either he wasn’t the talkative type, or he just had nothing to say.

Even when I tried to start a conversation, he barely looked up from his newspaper, replying half-heartedly.
“Colonel, what’s that?”
“A tree.”

“Wow, isn’t that building gorgeous?”
“Art Deco architecture.”
“Is the newspaper interesting?”

“Yes.”
Our dialogue was a battle between forceful question marks and even more forceful periods.
At least he was polite in tone—even if the content was lacking.

“Colonel, have you ever had a crunji?”
“No.”
“It’s like a flattened croissant, baked until super crispy.”

“Oh.”
The war of attrition ended when we finally arrived at his mansion.
God, I thought I’d die of awkwardness.

“You must be tired, having talked to yourself for three days straight. Rest.”
He already looked like he’d had enough of me.
“Lady Queensguard, allow me to escort you to your room.”

The servants in his household were just like their master—stoic and silent.
Then, a boy who looked about eight approached and looked up at me.
“Who are you?”

He had dark hair and bright green eyes, like fresh spring leaves. A strikingly pretty boy.
With a ribbon tied on his shirt and a little pout, he looked like a tiny black kitten.
“Is he your son?”

I fired off the question, and Masera swept his platinum hair back with a faint smile.
“No. I picked him up on the battlefield.”
A lost kitten indeed. I crouched down to offer a handshake.

“Hello. I’m Cynthia. I’ll be marrying the Colonel so—”
“Get lost!”
The boy smacked the back of my hand and ran off like a hissing cat.

As I awkwardly looked around, I caught the icy stares of the servants.
…Somehow, I got the distinct feeling no one here was happy to see me.