The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

* * *

Count Visente, Madam Eleonora, and Oliver were feasting and drinking freely in a luxurious room for the first time in a while.
“If we’d just holed up here from the start, it would’ve been fine. What can the organization do if we stay protected in the government quarters like this?”
“They’ll just harass the brigadier, I suppose. As the parents of a war hero, we’ll gain connections—might even find ways to borrow money elsewhere.”

After all, that impressive adopted son would pay it back eventually.
Watching the Count and her brother-in-law laughing and chatting, Madam Eleonora felt justified in following Helene’s advice to brazenly move into the quarters and hold their ground.
Now, before Masera returned to kick them out, all that remained was to tame the princess.

“First, we need to instill discipline as her elders. Acting all arrogant just because she’s called a princess.”
After that, they began making one unreasonable demand after another under the pretense of being in-laws.
“What is this meal? The cook should be fired immediately.”

“How could you not know I’m allergic to peanuts? If you don’t want to be accused of mistreating your in-laws, you’d better step it up.”
And Madam Eleonora nagged endlessly as she picked apart every corner of the government residence.
‘At least I’m better than the others. I’m just trying to teach her her duties as a daughter-in-law.’

With that self-justification, Madam Eleonora raised her voice sternly at Cynthia, who wore a serene smile that seemed far too relaxed.
“I will take charge of all major household affairs for the time being. You, Princess, should learn how to support your husband as a proper wife. Do you know how to embroider?”
“No? I don’t have a hobby like that.”

Biting her lip at Cynthia’s shameless answer, Eleonora snapped,
“Hobby? That’s basic education. A refined noblewoman must be taught everything from A to Z.”
“Oh dear, I can’t afford to pay tuition.”

At Cynthia’s mockery, a vein bulged on Eleonora’s forehead.
“Princess, you need to relearn etiquette from the ground up. Just what on earth did they teach you in your natal family…”
It was then—
“Are you talking about her upbringing now?”

A displeased voice cut in from behind.
Startled, Madam Eleonora turned around in a panic.
It was none other than Count Queensguard.

Dressed elegantly, arms crossed, he stood with a deeply scowling face.
“Who… Count Queensguard?”
“And you no longer even use honorifics when addressing the head of a noble house, despite no longer being nobles yourselves.”

“What are you doing here?”
At Eleonora’s question, Count Queensguard replied with that distinct air of arrogance laced through his refined speech.
“Must I have a reason to visit my daughter’s home? Though it seems you lot came here with a purpose. Did you pick up those clothes from a donation bin? Why does a man who can’t even dress his wife in proper attire stay married?”

As Eleonora shrank under the brutal verbal assault, Cynthia grinned wickedly.
There was no need to deal with trash one by one. The best way to handle trash is to send in something even filthier.
Even if she was being used, she could use others in return when necessary.

Count Queensguard, hypersensitive when it came to money, had rushed over the moment Cynthia contacted him: “These people who call themselves my in-laws are demanding wedding gifts and asking me to repay their debts.”
“To be in debt to the mob… How much of a piece of trash do you have to be to fall so far? The ancestors of Visente must be crying in their graves.”
The Count frowned, puffing on his cigar.

From his perspective, Cynthia being targeted by the organization would cause multiple problems. You can’t let a rat fall into soup that’s almost finished.
Humiliated, Madam Eleonora snapped.
“Count, that’s going too far! We only asked for help reconciling with our adopted son.”

“Then sort it out among yourselves! But to scold and torment our princess—how could I, as her father, stand idly by!”
‘Gross.’
Cynthia shuddered theatrically, then dabbed at dry eyes with a handkerchief in a perfectly timed act.

“Daddy… they called me a half-wit because I can’t embroider.”
“Princess! Wh-when did I say that?!”
Madam Eleonora shouted in shock.

Meanwhile, Count Queensguard’s glare sharpened further as he looked at the tearful Cynthia.
“Why would you make my daughter do something servants are supposed to handle? Flaunting yourselves as in-laws when you're nothing but penniless fools who lost their titles.”
I’ve thought this before—his acting is really top-notch. He truly looked like a furious father witnessing his daughter being mistreated by in-laws.

Passing servants glanced over at Eleonora, being harshly scolded, and thought to themselves that she deserved it.
Then a loud crash came from downstairs, and Count Queensguard leaned over the railing and yelled down,
“Edford! Don’t touch that filthy wretch!”

Whatever had happened in that brief time, Oliver and Edford were now grappling on the floor.
From below, Count Visente shouted up, swinging his cane.
“Who are you calling filthy, you brat? You killed your own brother and snatched the title of head of the Queensguard family, and now you’ve lost all decency? A family of assassins once kept as royal dogs, acting just like a brutish soldier!”

Count Queensguard exhaled cigar smoke with a sneer.
“Better than an old civil servant rotting on the streets the moment his ink dries.”
Put a bunch of villains together and what you get is a beautifully chaotic mess.

Cynthia folded her handkerchief neatly and thought to herself.
“I’ll warn you now—if you pull any shady stunts claiming you’re trying to pay off debts…”
Count Queensguard continued in a cold, ominous voice.

“You’ll see the ancient methods of the Queensguard family, once the shadows of the royal family.”
The first head of the Queensguard had been a high-ranking knight carrying out secret orders for the Frost Queen, cleaning up anyone who threatened the crown. That’s where the Count’s ruthless methods came from.
Knowing full well the cruelty of the Queensguard family, Madam Eleonora avoided his gaze.

‘Why is the Duke’s wife and the Count saying completely different things?’
She was beginning to feel confused by the contradiction between Helene’s advice and the Count’s actions.
“And you’d best not go around high society borrowing money using my daughter and son-in-law’s names.”

Count Queensguard delivered the final blow.
Madam Eleonora, who had just been planning to do exactly that, pressed her pale lips tightly shut.
* * *

“Ugh, they really did pick only the most expensive alcohol.”
“Should we invoice them for the furniture they broke today too?”
Late at night, Cynthia was going over the expense list with Dalia. They were planning to bill even the toothbrushes the guests had used.

Fortunately, the presence of Count Queensguard in the residence had noticeably curbed the bad behavior. At the slightest sign of any nonsense, he’d barge in and cause a scene.
Knock knock—
“Princess, may I have a word?”

Butler Milchenko entered cautiously, wearing a hat.
When Dalia stepped aside, he smiled sheepishly.
“Why the hat?”

“I wore it in case my face made you uncomfortable. There are many people who feel that way.”
He gestured toward the long scar running down his cheek.
No wonder he had always smiled evasively when she spoke to him, and refused even gifts of health supplements. He must’ve assumed she disliked him because of the scar…

Feeling sorry inside, Cynthia smiled without a hint of discomfort.
“I think it’s cool. Like a seasoned veteran with a story to tell.”
“Thank you. You may speak casually if you like.”

“I usually speak formally to anyone more than forty years older.”
Milchenko gave a small chuckle and folded his hands.
“The brigadier probably wouldn’t want you to know, Princess, but I felt I should give you at least a rough explanation.”

Just in case Masera misunderstood and felt betrayed for thinking she welcomed these people.
“You’re telling me this because you trust me, right? Thank you.”
At those words, Milchenko looked relieved and began.

“They’re terrible abusers who shouldn’t be here.”
Milchenko’s faded eyes drifted into the air, as if painting over memories from the past.