The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

* * *

I went straight into tattletale mode and rushed to find Masera, but he was absent.
Apparently, he had a mountain of work piled up from the trip.
‘It’s been hard to even see his face since the day after our honeymoon.’

I had been waiting for a while in the bedroom—which had nothing but a bed—when I heard he had returned to the official residence. I hurried out to greet him.
“Brigadier, I have something to discuss with you. Privately.”
“Let’s talk tomorrow. I have a lot to do.”

He turned and headed for his office like he was fleeing.
Since he said he was busy, I had no choice but to wait patiently in the room.
“…Why isn’t he coming? I’m dying of sleepiness.”

Even by dawn, he still hadn’t come to the room. According to what I heard later from Dalia…
“The Brigadier said he’ll only sleep together on the designated nights.”
“Oh wow.”

Was this the arranged marriage cliché called ‘separate rooms’?
If he has no intention of doing anything with me, then it’s basically a declaration that we’ll be sleeping apart for life.
It seemed Masera had officially started putting distance between us.

“Well, that’s that.”
I jumped up from the bed and threw on my sweater coat.
“This is about Eugene, someone everyone in the residence cares about.”

His voice had been thick with sorrow—how could I pretend I didn’t notice?
Determined, I headed straight to Masera’s office.
“Brigadier?”
The office was empty, but his uniform coat was hanging and firewood was burning in the stove—signs he was still somewhere nearby.

‘Is he sleeping?’
Deciding I had to speak to him even if I had to wake him, I marched confidently toward the adjoining room.
Clack.

The sound of a door opening—directly in front of me. The bathroom.
Through the steam billowing out like fog, I locked eyes with Masera, who was toweling off his platinum hair.
During the entire honeymoon, he’d always been tightly covered up, but now he was shirtless. At least he still had pants on.

“Gasp.”
I stepped back and covered my eyes with my hands.
But I saw everything through the gaps in my fingers.

Beautifully proportioned practical muscles, broad shoulders, a chest as vast as the sea, a trim waist, forearm veins bulging beneath the towel he held…
Analysis: Masera had the face of a nobleman and the body of a beast.
“……”

But it wasn’t just about admiration. His body was riddled with scars—the traces of war.
‘Gunshot wounds, stab wounds, burns…’
The struggle to survive «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» was carved clearly into him.

From my previous life, I could more or less tell how injuries were sustained just by looking at the scars.
Because I, too, had once been covered in the same kind.
Suddenly feeling the urge to cry, I pressed my hands to my eyes and spoke.

“Brigadier. Sorry for barging in like this. But I have an urgent matter.”
“What’s so urgent?”
A wave of damp warmth and the scent of fresh soap washed over me.

“To come in dressed like that, without a shred of fear.”
His dry voice prompted me to glance down at my outfit.
Just a pajama dress under a sweater coat. Very proper.

“Isn’t this fully armored?”
If anyone was being shamelessly underdressed, it was him.
I really didn’t understand the all-ages rating standards of this man—making a fuss over pajamas that look like regular clothes…

Just then, he smirked and stepped even closer.
“Did you decide on your own that tonight was the ‘night’ I mentioned and come barging in?”
“No.”

“I never intended anything of the sort. And even if you did, nothing between us would change.”
“I said that’s not it, you fool.”
Ugh, would you please put on some clothes already?

The more I backed away, the closer he came. At this point, it looked like he was the one who wanted the marital night.
Before I knew it, I was backed against the wall, staring into his cool eyes.
Ah, so he’s trying to scare me off.

“Oh no, how bold of me to stand here while you’re completely undressed! If you’re going this far, I guess I’ve got no choice! Let’s enjoy this together!”
I threw off my sweater coat dramatically.
Time to show him what a second-life woman is capable of.

I threw my arms around him—and he flinched, grabbing my shoulders.
“What are you doing…?”
“I’m doing exactly what you seemed to be asking for, Mister Already-Decided-the-Answer.”

“Mister what?”
Maybe his soldierly competitiveness kicked in, because the hands that had been on my shoulders dropped to my waist.
He tightened his arms around me.

“Go ahead then. Do as you wish.”
Backing down meant defeat.
And I was just as stubborn as he was, so even with my cheek pressed against his solid chest, I stayed calm.

“Alright, on to the next stage of the marital night!”
At my proud shout, he flinched again.
That’s when he turned his head sharply toward a noise.

I followed his gaze—only to make eye contact with Diego, who stood frozen with his mouth agape.
Clack.
That was the sound of Diego dropping the report he was holding.

He was staring at us, locked tightly in a clearly passionate embrace.
“…Mother of God.”
A stunned exclamation from the usually composed Diego.

“Sorry for interrupting…”
Apparently too shocked to finish his sentence, he fled the room.
Silence fell—cold and heavy. I could see goosebumps forming on Masera’s skin.

He must be embarrassed.
“Uh… let’s call a temporary truce.”
I was just as mortified, so I raised a white flag first.

He let me go like pushing something away and quickly threw on a robe.
Then, with a growl and a sharp glare like a cornered beast, he turned to me.
“You’d better leave now. Your plan to attack physically has failed.”

“Sneak attack or not, just take a look at this.”
I held up the book I had left on the nightstand.
His dawn-colored eyes narrowed warily—then widened.

“You actually managed to get that book?”
“I didn’t. Eugene’s tutor gave it to him. But I think he’s teaching some pretty twisted ideas. You should consider firing him.”
I explained as quickly as I could to avoid further misunderstanding.

“You’re telling me to get rid of the one person Eugene follows most?”
“Yes. It didn’t feel like admiration. More like forced obedience—something repressed.”
Now that he was finally listening, I added,

“I think he’s instilling hatred against Esats.”
I also told him about what happened with Major Rodriguez.
Masera quietly nodded.

“Understood.”
“But how did that tutor even get hired at the residence?”
“Eugene is a very guarded child. He’d rejected every single candidate—over twenty interviews. Hayden was the first he didn’t turn away.”

Masera poured himself a glass of wine, his eyes drifting in recollection.
“Are you sure about his background?”
“He’s a scholar who defected from a colony occupied by the Empire. I checked his university credentials and academic papers.”

Just because someone came from an imperial colony didn’t mean they hated the Empire.
There were always collaborators who absorbed the Empire’s ideology.
“My stance is this: anyone who teaches hatred has no right to be called a teacher. An adult who teaches discrimination will ultimately be hated by everyone.”

And any child raised with that kind of teaching would grow up to repeat the same cycle of conflict and war.
* * *
After Cynthia left, Masera sat staring blankly at the book she had given him.

His mind wandered back to the past—to the bombing of the principality.
The principality had been bombed for sheltering Esat refugees.
Within an hour, many were dead or injured. The city was in ruins.

Masera had been tasked with finding the missing daughter of the allied navy admiral.
Her husband, a colonel, maintained command on site with a calm demeanor—but he seemed oddly dazed.
There had been a rumor the admiral’s daughter had married without love, clinging to her husband. That he resented her.

“We’ve found Mrs. Grönendal. She’s alive, but…”
She was discovered three days later, in a horrifying state, and died soon after in a military hospital.
After submitting his report and leaving the ward, Masera had spotted a dark-haired man facing a brick wall.

Tears were falling from the colonel’s downturned head.
“…Don’t forgive me. For being blinded by anger and failing to see her true feelings…”
His whispered words were laced with late regret and irretrievable loss.

Only after the end had he realized the truth.
As he walked in silence, Masera spotted a black-haired boy standing against the sunset.
The child was looking at the colonel from afar, his expression forlorn.

“Are you Colonel Grönendal’s son?”
At Masera’s question, the boy—his face covered in bandages and patches—shook his head.
“I thought he was my dad…”

The boy wiped his eyes with a bandaged arm and ran off.
That had been Masera’s first encounter with Eugene.