Chapter 08
The Club Bet
“Well, who’s to say? Iella Clarence… she’s just a bit too ordinary, isn’t she?”
“Oh, come on! You clearly know one thing and miss the other two.”
“I’m telling you—looks aren’t everything when it comes to women. Take that to heart.”
One of the men in the group jerked his chin, signaling another closer. As the latter approached with a puzzled expression, the first man quickly whispered.
“Picking a woman based on her looks is just like gambling. And you know what they say about gambling—it’s the fastest road to ruin.”
A knowing smirk spread across the newcomer’s previously blank face.
“Sure, she’s not as obviously beautiful as Miss Louisa, but Iella Clarence does have a refined look to her.”
“She doesn’t dress up much, but her graceful poise, the way she walks, her dignified demeanor—she’s as polished as any noble lady.”
“Iella Clarence—was it her looks we were even talking about?”
When someone asked that of the men who had first brought up the daughters of the Clarence viscount family, they nodded eagerly. Then, the man who had asked the question turned to them with a sly smile and replied.
“Whatever you imagine, just lower your expectations. Because I guarantee… she’ll fall far short.”
The group collectively grimaced.
“So what, is she pretty or not?”
“You’re missing the point! Looks aren’t the issue here. I promise you—none of you, not a single one, will manage to get a date or even a reply from Miss Clarence.”
Apparently, there were several in the group who had already been rejected, because many of them responded with confident nods and muttered, “Yeah, no kidding.”
“Not even Franz could pull it off.”
To strengthen his point, one man deliberately mentioned Franz’s name.
At that moment, Franz—who had been rhythmically tapping his fingers on the table—stilled. His gaze slowly turned toward the speaker.
It was Blair Mossman, the same guy who always lost to him, yet never gave up his delusional rivalry. This time, he seemed to be igniting some kind of competition over which noble lady could be won over for a date.
Franz looked at Blair with fresh eyes. The way he beat around the bush was both laughable and pitiable.
Maybe sensing Franz’s reaction, Blair flashed a smug grin and said confidently, “Even if you’re the beloved prince of all, the darling of society—you won’t get a single date from Iella Clarence.”
To think someone would get so worked up over a date. Ridiculous.
“Not interested.”
Franz’s reply was cool and indifferent. Blair, however, made a sour face.
“What a shame. I’d have loved to see you get rejected.”
Around them, some of the other men murmured, “Here we go again,”—either amused or awkward. But Franz remained perfectly composed.
“Unfortunately, I’m not used to rejection or failure like you are, Blair.”
He grinned devilishly, clearly not sorry in the slightest. Blair scowled at him.
“Hah.”
A moment later, Blair let out a hollow laugh, but his eyes sparkled with unyielding resolve.
Franz noticed the glint in his eyes, but his smile didn’t falter. He could afford to be generous—even with someone as provocative as Blair. That is, until Blair opened his mouth again.
“Lucky for you, Franz. I hope you never get used to rejection… Because that means this year’s Club Trophy will go to someone else. Wonder who it’ll be…?”
The sarcasm was blatant.
That bastard.
Franz was now certain Blair had orchestrated this whole scene. Pretending to worry about him, pretending to care—while smugly predicting the outcome.
But that kid would never be able to surpass him.
Franz had always treated even the lowliest servants with generosity and never discriminated based on status. The more privilege he enjoyed, the more he believed he had a duty to bear the responsibilities that came with it.
That’s why he’d always been lenient toward Blair Mossman’s antics. Even found his endless challenges amusing—up to a point.
But the Club Trophy?
That was crossing a line.
The Club Trophy, crafted in pure gold, was a playful competition held each May. The event and its rules changed yearly—hunting, golf, tennis, horseback riding, swimming—or sometimes ridiculous games like drinking contests, speed-eating, or hammer-swinging.
No matter the game, Franz always came out on top. So the others had started suggesting events that might finally give someone else a chance. Yet every time, Franz still won. Begrudging respect followed, but so did frustration.
To think Blair would now bring that trophy into a petty bet over a girl?
Childish.
He would’ve entertained the idea if it had been at least clever. But this? This wasn’t even mildly interesting.
“Hey, Blair. You think I’m declining because I expect to be rejected? Do you even know who I am?”
He was Franz Princeton—the royal family’s infamous libertine. The darling of high society. Not a nickname he asked for, but one he’d certainly earned.
“For someone like me, this bet is too easy. Don’t you think?”
He looked around with a confident smile, and the others instinctively nodded.
“Yeah, this bet favors Franz way too much.”
“Seriously, what woman would turn down Franz?”
“If anything, they’d welcome him with open arms.”
“Open arms? Try open legs.”
Laughter erupted. The bawdy jokes echoed around the club, soon growing into a loud, raucous chorus.
“In that case, shouldn’t we change the terms of the bet?”
The murmurs continued, suggesting Franz’s win was inevitable yet again.
For Blair, the turn in mood was disastrous. This was not the reaction he had expected.
“No! I stand by it. Let’s proceed as is.”
He quickly recovered, his voice brimming with false confidence.
“Franz, don’t take it personally. It’s not that I doubt your charm—I just admire Iella Clarence’s spirit, that’s all.”
Feigning warmth, Blair glanced at Franz, who responded with calm detachment.
“This year’s bet is too predictable to be exciting. If I win this too, won’t that be a bit too cruel? Besides, I don’t even have room for another trophy—the cabinet’s already full. Guess I’ll have to commission a new one next year. What a shame. Poor old Paul Simon will be disappointed.”
Mentioning the furniture store owner by name, Franz let out a mocking laugh. Blair’s lips visibly twitched with irritation.
Amateur. Doesn’t he know how to hide his expressions when his pride’s on the line?
But as Franz’s announcement rang out—that he wouldn’t participate this year—the entire club burst into cheers. Men started dreaming of victory as if the trophy were already theirs.
“Franz! You better keep your word, alright?”
“No backing out later! Swear it!”
“Oh man, Franz! People always said you were ruthless and cold-hearted, but I take it all back!”
“Great decision. Thanks, Franz!”
Their over-the-top gratitude almost made Franz want to do the opposite out of spite. But truthfully, this year’s bet just didn’t spark anything in him. Almost like there was some deeper reason for it.
Whatever. Doesn’t matter.
Letting the others have a taste of joy for once wasn’t such a bad use of his mercy.
“Franz.”
Hearing his name, he turned to face Richard.
“…Yeah?”
“Well? Say something.”
“You’re really not going to participate?”
Franz gave him a look that said, What are you talking about? and Richard replied incredulously, “The Club Trophy, duh!”
“Ah, that. I remember. Just didn’t think it was worth responding to.”
“So you’re really sitting this one out? Isn’t it your rule never to lose a single coin once you’ve put it in?”
Andrew chuckled at Richard’s disbelief.
“I mean, sure, I want that trophy too—but the whole thing’s so juvenile I can’t even be bothered. We’re not in bloody high school.”
“And Franz, of all people? If he actually goes through with this, I’ll wager Yvette on it.”
Yvette was Andrew’s prized horse. A bold claim. Even Marco, standing nearby, nodded in silent agreement.
“Wow, Yvette? You’d stake her?”
“Well, yeah. I just can’t picture it. That bet is too ridiculous.”
“The decisive moment is the last night of the Rose Festival—the final ball, during the fireworks display. Whoever watches those fireworks with Miss Clarence wins the trophy.”
“But… there’s a legend about those fireworks, isn’t there?”
“Exactly. Isn’t it a bit cruel to rope Miss Clarence into something like this, even as a joke?”
“You really believe in that old tale? Come on, everyone just wants the trophy. If you’re scared, back out.”
“Who’s backing out?! I’m just saying…”
The rose was the national flower of Lapland. Each year, as the roses bloomed in abundance, the capital, Viln, held the grand Rose Festival from mid to late May.
It was a time not just for nobility, but for commoners too—everyone came together to enjoy the festivities. And often, new couples blossomed along with the flowers.
