TBMGW 10

Episode 10

After the outing, Ian’s attitude noticeably softened.

Of course, that was by his standards. To anyone else, he was still someone who’d make them click their tongues in disbelief.

For instance—when pulling me along, he now grabbed the hem of my clothes or the edge of my hair, rather than my wrist.

But toward everyone else? He still threw things at them without a second thought.

And about this throwing things business—I need to elaborate.

At first, I actually thought, Well, if all his “outrages” amount to is chucking stuff around, that’s kind of cute.

…That thought lasted all of three seconds.

It was only because I’d once endured James Grington—the true king of tyranny, the god of tantrums, a bully among bullies.

But the reality? No, Ian was not harmless. He just didn’t sharpen his claws at me. Toward everyone else, he performed his role as the nightmare young master to perfection.

Like just now.

When a servant brought him a meal, Ian asked about the menu. Then, while the poor man relaxed for a moment, Ian hurled the teapot straight at him.

The stunned servant froze, staring at him in shock. And Ian, his angelic face devoid of expression, simply said—

“The scent displeases me.”

…That was the twentieth time I’d seen this exact routine.

And now, I was watching another victim stumble out of Ian’s room in tears.

Poor Mary. What crime did you ever commit to deserve this?

How could a mere twelve-year-old be so rotten at heart?

Of course, the answer was obvious: the devil dwelled inside him.

And yet, at the bakery, he’d seemed like a perfectly tolerable boss.

I’d been serving as his exclusive valet for nearly a month now. After that outing, I thought perhaps he’d begun to change. But before long, Ian Brighton was back to his usual self.

It took me a whole month to finally engrave this truth deep into my bones: Ian Brighton was a boy made of pure malice.

He treated everyone but me as mortal enemies.

As I wiped up the tea spilled across the floor, I glanced up at Ian, seated by the window.

“Do you really need to go this far, sir?”

Yes, it was presumptuous of me. But poor Mary didn’t deserve that treatment.

Ian’s cruelties fell into two distinct categories:

First, tormenting someone the instant they entered his sight.

Second, lulling them into a false sense of security—then stabbing them in the back.

Lately, the second method was becoming alarmingly frequent.

When we first met, you could charitably describe him as just “a brat with a bad temper.”

But day by day, he was growing sly. Cunning. Dangerous.

If what I saw that night at ten o’clock—the real Ian Brighton—was gradually taking control…

No. If that were true, I could already hear the sound of my golden job crumbling to dust.

Yes, I’d resolved to help Ian reclaim his humanity, if only to protect my precious position. But reality was proving grim.

As I gathered the shards of the broken teapot into a dustpan, I tried again.

“There are many ways to express displeasure besides throwing cups to the floor, sir.”

At my mild tone, Ian snapped his head toward me, frowning hard.

A face sculpted by God Himself, twisted into a scowl.

“Life must be treating you well, huh? To the point you’re daring to lecture me.”

“All thanks to you, sir. You’ve treated me quite well.”

“Oh, I see. Pamper a dog too much and it learns to bite the hand, is that it?”

I’d meant it as flattery, but only Ian Brighton could twist it into an insult like that.

“You seem in an especially foul mood today. Did something happen?”

No mistaking it—his tone was sharper than usual.

“Shall I fetch you some warm milk with honey?”

“Shut up.”

So, he wasn’t denying it. Which meant it was true—something had upset him.

His gaze returned to the window, brow furrowed.

Curious, I peeked outside through the bars.

Lady Rosa.

She was plucking roses in the garden with her lady’s maid.

As Ian’s valet, I was always with him, and so every time I encountered Rosa Brighton, she was furious.

She despised her only brother.

And why wouldn’t she? He distressed their parents, called them “that woman” and “that man,” and hurled insults that no child should.

So it was strange—almost uncanny—to see Rosa Brighton smiling.

Laughing brightly, like a girl her age.

So she does have expressions like that.

In the end, Rosa only became a “spiteful older sister” because of Ian.

But the culprit himself? No remorse whatsoever. He only glared at her, eyes brimming with resentment.

I grew uneasy. Was he about to do something to her?

But then, the words that left his lips were… unexpected.

“Have you ever been on a picnic?”

What? That had nothing to do with roses, Rosa, the clear sky, or today’s fine weather.

Naturally, I blinked in confusion.

“A picnic? No, never.”

I had, before I transmigrated, but that was a lifetime ago.

And the Gringtons? They’d never spare me such a luxury.

At my honest answer, Ian’s expression softened.

Wait—softened?!

He actually looked pleased to hear I’d never gone on a picnic?

How twisted can one boy be?

As I reeled, Ian continued.

“They say noble children spread blankets by the lake and bask in the beauty of nature like it’s a painting.”

“Are you interested, sir?”

“I don’t care about such things.”

His dry tone left no room for doubt.

But his next words betrayed his true feelings.

“…But it pisses me off when they go without me.”

Without me. Them, together.

I thought it over, and suddenly, it clicked.

I clapped my hands together.

“So everyone else is going on a picnic!”

Now that I thought about it, I vaguely recalled hearing some of the other new servants gush about being chosen to accompany the family on an outing.

If even the Duke, Duchess, and Lady Rosa were going, then it was a major event.

And why hadn’t I heard a thing?

Because the one I served—Ian Brighton—wasn’t invited.

And with that realization came an odd, complicated feeling.

Was I supposed to… pity him?

“I heard it’s for the Duchess’s health. They say she’s been declining lately.”

Ian’s bitter voice reached my ears.

That crooked smile. Those sharp, glinting eyes.

He looked like a villain far older than twelve.

“The ever-so-great Duke Brighton says I’m the reason she’s wasting away, so of course I can’t attend.”

“…I see.”

It was true—the Duke was cold to his son. There was no denying it.

But perhaps that was simply because the Duke saw Ian clearly. He knew what kind of unholy existence his child had become.

So it wasn’t strange that he’d exclude him from a picnic meant for his wife’s recovery.

And yet—Ian was angry. Right here, right now, in front of me.

And I found that oddly fascinating.

“You don’t care for your family, do you, sir?”

His eyes stayed fixed outside.

“No.”

“But you don’t like being left out, either.”

A silence followed. Whenever I hit the mark, Ian fell silent.

And I liked that about him.

Because in those moments, Ian Brighton seemed like just a boy my age.

“What about me, then?”

“…What nonsense is that?”

“Do you like me, sir?”

I didn’t have the guts to phrase it as “Do you care for me?” The idea of Ian Brighton liking anyone was absurd.

His annoyed gaze finally turned to me.

That sullen face, those tightly pressed lips.

I couldn’t help but grin at him.

“You’re the least irritating person in this house.”

I hadn’t expected him to admit it so easily. That alone felt like progress.

“Then let’s go on a picnic, sir.”

The Duchess’s condition may have worsened because of him. So, of course, Ian Brighton couldn’t join their picnic.

But if he went with me, that was a different story altogether.

“Like our last outing!”

My excited voice hung in the air.

Ian’s face twisted into utter disbelief.