Prologue
“Did you say you came to see my daughter?”
“Yes. I apologize for intruding on your estate without notice. The matter is urgent for me.”
At the mention that he had come to see his daughter, Arlen Milter, a small fissure appeared on the man’s face.
He was a strikingly handsome man, so youthful and beautiful that it was hard to believe he could have an adult daughter, just as described in the book.
The heroine’s father in the novel—well, it’s a given that some men simply don’t show the effects of time.
He was the Count Arlen, the father of the female protagonist in the novel I had read.
I never expected I’d end up living inside that novel.
And to think I’d encounter a character who, in the book, was barely even mentioned—a seemingly insignificant presence.
At the news that I had come to see Milter, Count Arlen’s expression darkened noticeably.
Not the reaction I expected.
I knew the Count had a prickly personality, blowing cold winds wherever he went, but I also knew he was a doting father who couldn’t hide his smile when it came to his daughter.
Yet the Count facing me looked utterly grief-stricken, as if the world itself had crumbled.
Since the Count had come out to greet me himself, it seemed that Lady Arlen was not at the estate. Could that be the reason?
It was a plausible assumption—after all, Count Arlen’s mood reportedly soared or plummeted with every little thing his daughter did.
Still, I wondered when she would return.
The absence of Milter made me anxious.
I thought about setting another appointment and returning later, but the thought that my life, which I had assumed would be a smooth and pleasant path, could unravel into ruin made me hesitate.
No matter what, I had to fix the things that had gone wrong today.
I had assumed that meeting Milter alone would solve all the problems I faced.
At least, that was before I heard the news in the Count’s trembling voice.
“It seems you haven’t received the obituary.”
“Obituary? Whose?”
The moment I looked into the Count’s bloodshot eyes, a bad premonition ran down my spine.
“She’s dead. My daughter.”
What had I just heard?
“My beloved daughter, Milter, has left this world before her father.”
Count Arlen’s broad shoulders collapsed weakly.
At the same time, my own mental composure shattered like fragile crumbs of a delicate cookie.
The heroine in the novel was dead.
And with her passing, she had handed me the power to walk a path toward ruin.
I realized that my life—which had been busy but otherwise smooth—had gone horribly wrong the moment my body came into contact with that man.
