Chapter 9
“What did you say?”
“Try regulating marijuana inside the club. See what happens.”
Ashmia continued in a calm tone.
“Fleur will start breaking apart from within. You’ll see more private gatherings without your presence, and someone else—someone who helps cover up their crimes in your place—will gain their support and power. In other words, Fleur will lose influence, and a new club will rise in its place.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“But they won’t officially leave Fleur. Because if anything goes wrong, they’ll need a scapegoat to take the fall for them. And that scapegoat will be you—Francesca Pendragon.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!!”
“If you’re so confident, why not give it a try? See if I’m wrong. Especially with social clubs like Fleur, where there’s no real sense of purpose, these things happen all the time. So easily it’s almost laughable.”
How much and from where should she start teaching this naive noble lady who’s teetering on the edge of turning cruel?
“So what exactly are you trying to say? Stop talking in circles!”
“I already told you. Regulate marijuana. And after that, only care for the members who still come to the club. They’re the ones who genuinely follow you. Then formally dissolve Fleur. The sooner, the better.”
Ashmia spoke with the smile gone from her face.
“Within two weeks—maybe even a week—every noble family and merchant group distributing marijuana in the capital will be arrested.”
“What?!”
“I’m telling you to take action now so they don’t start throwing around the Pendragon name when that happens.”
Ashmia listed several family names.
“All of them are involved in marijuana distribution, and in extortion, threats, and exploitation of civilians and commoner groups. I understand their sons and daughters are members of Fleur. And they’re not the only ones. Seven… no, eight out of ten of them? You’d be hard-pressed to find a single spotless family among them.”
Francesca’s expression hardened.
“If all you wanted was to play ‘queen,’ then you should’ve at least learned to tell the difference between a wolf and a dog.”
“……!!”
Speaking as someone who had once been part of the Imperial police, Ashmia hated those who openly admitted they were thugs and did bad things, but she despised even more those who hid behind noble titles while doing even worse in secret.
“…This is the first time I’ve felt such humiliation. Are you really saying all that knowing full well that a single word from me could cost you your life?”
“There you go. Now, who’s acting more like a ‘thug’? Even if those are the only things you’ve ever seen and learned, that doesn’t mean you have to become like them.”
“You’re incredibly rude! Do you even have any proof to back up what you’re saying?!”
Good.
Instead of calling for Bairen Bernardo, Francesca chose to listen to Ashmia.
“I’ll show you the results. That’ll be your proof.”
About halfway through the track, Francesca stopped her horse.
Ashmia also brought her horse to a halt and looked Francesca directly in the eye.
“So you came to this riding arena from the start with this in mind? To get close to me?”
“You could say that.”
“Why?”
After a brief pause, Ashmia answered.
“I thought you might need a friend.”
“A… friend?!”
Francesca frowned, but Ashmia smiled softly.
“Yes. A friend.”
“Are you telling me to join hands with the mafia?”
Ashmia shook her head.
“No. I’m telling you to join hands with Ashmia Kalashniel, not the Kalashniel family.”
Francesca stared at Ashmia, wide-eyed.
3. Meeting an Old Mentor
She had heard rumors of a reclusive youngest daughter within the Kalashniel family.
And now, after nearly being assassinated, that same daughter had suddenly appeared in front of her—not to beg for protection, but to say, “Let’s be friends.”
“What power do you even have? You’re not the boss of the mafia…”
“Let me return that question to you, exactly as you said it.”
You’re not the Duke either, are you?
“Isn’t that what makes this such a fair offer? I’m asking Francesca Pendragon as an individual—not the ‘Duchess of Pendragon’—to join hands with me.”
As Ashmia spoke, Francesca felt an inexplicable thrill.
Until now, she had lived a life without any material deficiency—but in return, she had lost her name.
‘Lady.’
Or ‘the Young Lady of the Pendragon family.’
Or worse, ‘The daughter of Theodore Pendragon.’
Francesca’s identity was nothing more or less than those titles.
Just as Ashmia had said, even the members of Fleur weren’t really there for Francesca, but for the Pendragon name. And Francesca had known that.
Even so, she hadn’t been able to let go of Fleur—because of loneliness.
Ashmia had perfectly described it as “playing queen.” She wanted to forget her loneliness by surrounding herself with people who pretended to care.
Ashmia said she was treating her as Francesca, the person.
Her attitude might have been the rudest Francesca had ever faced, but that only added to Ashmia’s mysterious charm.
“…Fine.”
Francesca looked Ashmia straight in the eye and said,
“You said two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“If what you say turns out to be true, then I’ll consider your arrogant little proposal.”
“Understood.”
“But if it turns out to be nonsense, the price will be high.”
“You’ve made the right choice. If you got caught up in something bad, that person would be heartbroken too.”
At Ashmia’s words, Francesca’s face flushed red.
“This conversation ends here!”
Ashmia smiled and nodded as if to say “Of course.”
Back at the starting point, both dismounted with the help of their respective bodyguards and walked into the building side by side.
As they passed, the gathered nobles looked on with intense curiosity, wondering what conversation had taken place between the two to bring about such a change in them.
Ashmia and Francesca both silently enjoyed the attention.
Out in the lobby, Ivan Randolph, now lined up with the staff, bowed deeply at 90 degrees with a wide smile.
“Once again, it is an honor to serve you, Miss Ashmia Kalashniel.”
“Please take care on your way!”
The staff all bowed in perfect unison with Ivan.
Ha. Smart bastard.
He probably didn’t know the details of their conversation, but his animal instincts had sensed a shift in power.
‘Guys like him always survive every era.’
Ashmia gave him a small wave.
“Please take good care of Bucephalus while I’m away.”
“Of course. And it’s a fine name you’ve chosen.”
Ivan, who had quickly figured out it was a name given to the white horse, responded with a greasy smile. Even in this moment, he didn’t forget to flatter—so typically Ivan.
Back in the car, Ashmia finally relaxed. Vanessa, seated in the driver’s seat, glanced over curiously.
“You did well. Did things go smoothly?”
“Yeah. Some of it was improvised, but it went well. All thanks to you, Vanessa.”
“What do you mean! All I did was get the horse to behave.”
“That was the biggest help. If there’s a reward you want, just say so. I’ll make it happen.”
“Oh, no! I’m fine, really!”
“You might want to decide before I change my mind?”
“…Can I think about it a bit?”
Ashmia chuckled.
“So, shall I take you home now?”
“Yeah. Let’s rest for today. Just that little bit of riding wore me out.”
And all that talking too.
But compared to two weeks ago, she’d made enormous progress.
Leaning into the breeze carrying the faint scent of horse manure through the open window, Ashmia spoke.
“By the way, I’ve got somewhere to be tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
Ashmia looked playfully at Vanessa.
“The police department.”
The Next Day
Ashmia, dressed in a formal suit instead of her usual dress, got out of the car. Her hair was tied up neatly, topped with a fedora, and her face was hidden behind sunglasses.
“Are you sure this is okay?”
Vanessa asked, worried.
“Yeah. They can’t arrest me just for having the Kalashniel name.”
Still, considering her colorful past, walking into a police station was a bit risky.
Ashmia gave a wink over her sunglasses and climbed the wide front steps leading to the police station entrance.
Hoo—
A soft breath escaped her lips as she passed through the main doors. The familiar smell and the noisy atmosphere of the first-floor lobby stirred nostalgic feelings.
“What brings you here today?”
Just as she was about to answer the officer at the front desk, her eyes caught sight of Nikita Borev—rushing off somewhere with documents in hand.
“Miss? May I ask what your business is?”
Startled out of her momentary daze, Ashmia straightened her thoughts and spoke clearly and firmly.
“I’m here to see Detective Clint Westfield.”
She had spoken the name of Michael’s former mentor.
