I watched the child’s back as he slapped the back of my hand and ran away.
That little cutie must be the mascot of this mansion.
As I was thinking that, Masera added a comment.
“He was raised without manners.”
The heck is he on about. I looked up at him with eyes full of question marks.
“Do you mean you don’t discipline him?”
“I don’t really know how to.”
Masera handed the coat he’d taken off to a servant and continued slowly.
“All the methods I know are too harsh.”
His voice was gentle, but it carried the chill of a frozen lake.
I tried to figure out what he meant by that.
Maybe he got strict corporal punishment growing up?
Even if he looked like a pampered noble, he could have a tragic backstory I don’t know about.
I shook my head.
“It’s alright. He was probably just surprised by how I look.”
To lighten the heavy mood, I smiled brightly.
“Brigadier General, show me around the mansion. I also want to see our bedroom.”
Masera’s eyebrow twitched slightly at the ‘♥our bedroom♥’ part.
He then looked over at a man wearing glasses.
A brown-haired guy who looked like the literal definition of a nerd gave me a polite bow.
“I’m the Brigadier General’s aide, Diego. I’ll be guiding you through the residence.”
I guess that was his signal for Diego to take over. Rofan male leads always start so shy at first.
“Okay! Let’s go right now!”
House tours are always fun! Besides, it’s my house now!
When I got all excited, the servants’ faces showed a hint of awkwardness.
Uh, was I supposed to act disappointed or something?
“Tch.”
I pretended to pout, gave Masera’s arm a light pinch, then followed Diego with a spring in my step that made it obvious how thrilled I was.
“There are a few things you’ll need to be cautious about while staying in the official residence,” Diego started speaking in a cautionary tone.
“Is this going to be some neapolitan horror story*?”
“Are you referring to the pasta?”
“Yep. That’s right.”
I guess there’s no neapolitan horror story here.
Diego, wearing a ‘Why would you even ask that?’ expression, resumed his explanation.
“This may be a mansion, but it is also the Chief of Staff’s official residence, a military security zone, and a military base. Taking photos or drawing anything here and releasing it externally is strictly forbidden…”
Basically, it was a high-security home befitting a military official. No wonder there were so many soldiers.
“And you must not enter the Brigadier General’s office or private quarters without permission.”
When people say that, doesn’t it automatically mean I’ll have to go in at some point? I vowed to never do that.
Diego reached for a doorknob.
“This will be the bedroom you and the Brigadier General use after the wedding.”
With high expectations, I peeked through the slowly opening door.
The spacious room was completely empty—no bed, no furniture, nothing.
“Wow.”
We’ll really live a minimalist lifestyle in this bedroom.
At my deflated exclamation, Diego spoke up as if he had anticipated it.
“There’s still some time before the ceremony…”
“Ohh, so I get the honor of decorating the bedroom?”
Like, ‘let’s see what your taste is like,’ or a quest where I have to fill it with things suitable for a wealthy House’s dowry?
Sounds fun.
* * *
After the grand tour of the mansion, Cynthia followed Diego to the dining hall.
At the long marble table sat Masera, pouring himself a glass of wine.
“Brigadier General, did you come early to wait for me?”
Since it was the first night, maybe he planned to have dinner with me.
But Masera dabbed his lips with a napkin and stood up. As he moved, the chandelier light shimmered like waves across his platinum hair.
“I’ve already eaten.”
After his calm words, silence fell over the room.
Cynthia blinked a couple times, her red eyes looking dazed.
“Oh dear, you must’ve been really hungry…”
Masera didn’t say a word.
Cynthia smiled sweetly and looked at him.
“Please go and rest then. Thank you for traveling so far to fetch me.”
“……”
Was that smile one of cluelessness unique to people raised in privilege, or was it pure malice wearing the mask of innocence?
His gaze landed on her slender fingers clad in silk gloves.
She looked like the only person in color in a place sunk into black and white. Even though the only color she had on was red.
He felt a sudden urge to make this woman cry—this woman who smiled brightly as if she’d never known or been touched by the world’s ugliness.
Diego, witnessing the coldness in Masera’s eyes as he turned away, swallowed hard.
‘How long will the lady… be able to endure such treatment?’
In his eyes, she looked like a snow rabbit abandoned in a frozen wasteland.
Just then, a maid brought Cynthia’s meal. Not only was her attitude chilly, she even set the plate down with a loud clank.
“Where did you learn how to rudely slam tableware like that? And top blade steak? Serving something so cheap is an insult to royalty.”
Those words didn’t come from Cynthia.
It was Rose, one of the servants brought from Count Queensguard‘s House, who was now frowning and protesting.
Cynthia might be royalty only in name, but on paper, she had royal blood.
“I think it’s delicious. And there’s a lot of meat, as well.”
Unlike Rose, who was trying to maintain dignity, Cynthia was slicing her steak with a look of bliss.
Cheap cut or not, meat was meat. As a maid, she hadn’t even seen meat before. This might as well be gourmet cuisine.
The maid who had served the food shot a glare at Rose and sneered.
“Are you some kind of spokesperson for your lady?”
Rose folded her arms, her tone sharp.
“My lady is too kind to ever speak harshly to others. The issue lies with those who take advantage of that.”
The air grew tense between the two.
Cynthia slowly rose from her seat, wearing a sorrowful expression.
“It’s because of me you’re uncomfortable. Since I’m the cause of this conflict, I’ll excuse myself first…”
“But Lady Cynthia, because of that insolent servant you couldn’t even eat—!”
Rose’s eyes bulged when she saw the plate was already wiped clean.
‘When did she eat all that?’
Brimming with the rare joy of a full belly, Cynthia brushed past Rose and whispered in her ear.
“Miss Rose Pasta.* If you really want to help me, shouldn’t you start by unpacking the luggage that’s still sitting there? Acting like a half-baked royal maid isn’t helping.”
Her tone was soft and sweet, but Rose felt suffocated, her face stiffening in shock.
* * *
Cynthia walked down the hallway, lost in thought.
Putting rude servants in their place and asserting dominance is the standard in rofan, but she wasn’t in a position to act righteous.
Lies don’t last forever. Eventually, they’re always found out.
‘I need to build a good image now, for when the truth comes out.’
Everyone here spoke in that clipped military tone, and even the way they moved in those rigid lines made it obvious they weren’t ordinary servants.
More importantly, Diego had said this place was a military security zone. Obviously, not just anyone could work here.
‘That means they’re probably all military personnel.’
Even the calluses—those telltale signs of holding guns—gave them away.
Having experienced war in her previous life, Cynthia had quickly recognized the marks of a soldier.
Just then, a white-haired butler, Milchenko, passed by and greeted her. A long scar cut across his wrinkled face.
‘Now I get why they all treat me this way.’
Soldiers were victims of war, too. They likely harbored resentment against the royals who had waged pointless wars in the past.
Thud.
Lost in thought, Cynthia bumped into something hard.
“Sorry…”
She rubbed her forehead and looked up at the tall man in front of her.
Masera, in shirt and suspenders, looked down at her with a blank expression.
“Oh, Brigadier General. I had something I wanted to ask. Are most of the people working here former military?”
At her question, Masera’s lips curled slightly in a bitter smile.
“And why do you want to know that?”
“So I can understand them better and get along. I mean, they’re probably still carrying trauma from the war…”
“Don’t bother trying.”
“Pardon?”
Cynthia blinked in surprise.
“How could someone who’s lived so comfortably, never knowing war, possibly understand?”
His voice was cold as he added,
“This marriage is just a matter of convenience. So don’t make unreasonable demands of me, my lady.”
He fully expected her to burst into tears and run away.
But Cynthia was far from crying, and simply looked at him with a smiling face.
“Ah-ah, okay!”
From her perspective, this had been a very enlightening conversation. She’d just gotten a better read on the male lead’s personality.
‘Pfft, typical. Acting all resistant now, but he’ll just end up regretting it later, sobbing and clinging to me.’
💟 Translator Notes 💟
*This joke refers to the trope of bad cafeteria pasta in Korean institutions, specifically “neapolitan pasta” (나폴리탄), which is a ketchup-based pasta dish popular school cafeteria, army mess halls, or in hospitals. It’s often: overcooked, weirdly sweet, served lukewarm, and overall tragic.
“나폴리탄 괴담” literally means: “neapolitan pasta horror story.” It’s become a meme among Koreans— referring to cafeteria food so memorably bad it haunts you. So when she jokingly asks if there’s a ‘neapolitan horror story’ rule among the house rules, she’s poking fun at how serious and stern Diego’s tone is.
*“Miss Rose Pasta” is a jab, referencing that same over-sauced, sweetened cafeteria pasta pretending to be refined— much like Rose’s fussy noble act.
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