Chapter 22
“I did some digging, and it turns out the journalist who wrote that first article I showed you holds higher social standing than the others.”
Today, I had the responsibility of convincing Herace.
“You said Whisler won’t be the one to break things off with me. At first, I thought that was a ridiculous claim. But looking back at our last meeting, it actually seems pretty likely. And honestly, I trust your judgment much more now.”
Maybe Whisler really doesn’t want to break up with me.
“Of course he won’t. Even if you say the words, he’ll cling to you.”
“I know you don’t like it when Whisler’s name comes up, and you don’t like me spending time alone with him.”
“And?”
“But Whisler is the perfect catalyst to keep our story in the spotlight.”
If Whisler suddenly disappeared, the buzz we’d built up so far would fizzle instantly. Until our story was firmly established, he was too useful to discard.
“So, what—you plan to keep meeting him without me? Once might be fine, but if it happens regularly, I’ll hate it. It’ll piss me off.”
“I’ll only meet him alone once. I promise.”
I held out my pinky finger firmly.
“This time, I’ll tell him that we need to ‘take some time apart.’”
“Isn’t that just another way of saying you’re breaking up?”
“Most people use it that way, yes. But it can also mean ‘let’s pause and then reconcile.’ Whisler’s pride will make him interpret it as the latter. That way, he won’t feel dumped, but he also won’t think we’re still together. It’s the perfect middle ground to keep him dangling as a supporting role in our story. Later, even if Herace and I openly become a couple, people will just assume Whisler misunderstood. No one will blame us.”
“…So you do have a plan.”
“Of course.”
My eyes gleamed as I squeezed Herace’s hand tightly. Just like he always did, I pressed between each of his knuckles, showing my determination while also practicing more skinship.
“We’ll use Whisler as a side character in our script until we’re done with him. It’s even more satisfying if we frame it as revenge.”
“My clever Philena. You didn’t even want revenge at first—how’d you come up with something this fun?”
“Because I stopped thinking about it in a narrow sense. If I take the broader view, there are so many possibilities. Sure, my ultimate goal is still to become more successful than Whisler.”
“Ah, right. That advice from your friend. The one I agreed with.”
Herace and I had exchanged letters once about what “revenge” should really mean. But since it wasn’t the primary goal, we never wrote it into the contract.
“Our teamwork and talent are what make this possible. And since we wrote out a contract, the risks and uncertainties dropped a lot, which freed me to think more creatively.”
“Alright. Let’s do it.”
His quick answer made me blink. Then he chuckled and tapped me lightly on the head.
“When my smart girlfriend comes up with something this good, how could I refuse? But—on one condition.”
“What condition?”
“You have to tell me everything. What you said to him, what happened, all of it. That’ll keep me entertained.”
That was easy. Of course I’d do it—it was for his “fun,” after all.
“And one more thing—take a week off.”
Herace pressed his fingertip to my nose, his tone casual, like it was no big deal.
“I’ll be busy for a week. So no writing scripts, no work. Just rest. Then I’ll contact you.”
I let go of his hand reluctantly. The air around me suddenly felt strangely empty.
* * *
That night, after Herace left, I called Clara in. Since I’d decided to meet Whisler, I needed to control this situation perfectly.
“You know the journalist who wrote about the love triangle between me, Herace, and Whisler? Reach out to him. Send information anonymously.”
Right now, Whisler had no idea about our strategy. It was the perfect moment to use him.
Honestly, who would ever suspect?
That I and Herace were deliberately feeding the scandal. Even if we were called villainess and villain, nobles were expected to maintain dignity.
After the department store fiasco, Whisler will definitely try to avoid crossing paths with us. Especially in public places he can’t control.
But in private? His guard would be down. And I wanted that meeting to get “caught.”
“Tell the journalist where and when Whisler and I will meet.”
The script was moving from setup to rising action.
* * *
Herace hadn’t lied. Three days passed, and I hadn’t received a single letter from him.
Normally he would’ve sent at least one by now.
Without the constant chaos he brought, the sudden quiet felt strange. His absence weighed heavily.
In contrast, just thinking about Whisler made my chest sink. This shift—this change in how I felt—was still a mystery to me.
Maybe it started when I saw his fake, polished face. Even if I never got excited by him before, the difference now is like night and day.
Whatever I had felt as a teenager must have been an illusion. As an adult, my relationship with Whisler was nothing but lukewarm water. Pleasant to look at, maybe, but bland.
Lukewarm water isn’t terrible. But it was never satisfying, either.
I walked toward the restaurant where I was to meet Whisler. A staff member spotted me and smiled with pure capitalist greed. Clara was waiting back in the carriage, so I was alone.
“Marquis Gass has already arrived, my lady.”
Of course he has.
The man wasn’t just a staffer—it was the owner himself. And when I entered, I realized why the place was so quiet.
Whisler had rented out the entire restaurant for this meeting.
“So that’s what it’s like for high nobles. They don’t even need financial sense.”
“…Pardon, my lady?”
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
Following the owner, I spotted a familiar figure. Whisler stood, greeting me with a slow smile.
“Philena. It’s been too long.”
He pulled out a chair for me with gentlemanly care. I felt a flicker of discomfort, but hid it with a long sigh.
“Let’s order first.”
He gestured warmly to the menu. Once I decided on soup and meat, the waiter came to take the order.
“What would you like, my lady?”
I lifted the menu slightly to cover my mouth and tilted my head up. Behind the shield of the menu, my lips curled into a wide grin.
Well done, Clara. You’ve earned another gold coin.
It was him—the journalist. The one making money off our scandal. Our unofficial partner.
But in person, he looked different. He had a mustache that wasn’t there in his photograph.
I hadn’t prepared for this. My mind went blank, but I forced myself to focus.
You’ve trained for this. You practiced. You even played the role opposite that woodcutter.
“…That will do. If it’s not enough, we can always add more later.”
I avoided looking at the journalist directly. Most importantly, I had to make sure Whisler didn’t notice that fake mustache.
Leaning closer to him, I whispered barely above a murmur:
“Whisler.”
“…Philena?”
This time, I deliberately slurred the word.
“Whith…ler.”
“…I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you.”
