8. The Woman Who Resembled the Waves
Anshi tried to pull her arm out of his grasp, but he wouldn’t let go easily.
“Hm? I asked what Trishy said to you.”
“She didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, come on! I heard she dragged you out for a picnic right after your shift ended.”
“That has nothing to do with you, Young Master.”
“Don’t say that, Rain. I’m sorry… I’ll apologize on Trishy’s behalf.”
Labou shook his head as if frustrated and saddened.
Anshi knew. She knew this young master harbored a certain affection for her.
But she had no intention of recounting her encounter with Trishy to him.
Even if she told him what happened, nothing would change. If anything, it might only provoke Trishy or bring more headaches.
He wasn’t even saying he would go speak to Trishy and stop it from happening again—just that he’d apologize for her.
She wasn’t foolish enough to hope for peace by depending on a young man who couldn’t even manage his own affairs.
“There’s no need to apologize. More importantly, please let go of my hand.”
Anshi tried again to pull away. Labou’s gaze dropped to where he was holding her arm.
“Are you mad, Rain…?”
His gaze was sticky, lingering on her. Instead of releasing her, he slowly slid his thumb along her wrist. The intent behind the gesture made Anshi recoil with a chill down her spine.
“Let go of me.”
“Stay with me.”
Labou seemed to have made up his mind. He raised his chin slightly and bent closer to Anshi. His confident eyes locked onto hers.
“Rain, what do you think of me?”
“I can’t say.”
“Don’t be like that. Don’t overthink it. Just say how you feel right now. Like if your heart flutters, or you feel excited—”
“It’s threatening. So please let go.”
“Why… would you say that?”
Labou looked genuinely offended, though all she’d done was speak the truth. He pressed his lips together and tugged her closer.
For a moment, Anshi truly felt threatened. The man in front of her had a large, muscular frame, and it was difficult to escape his grip.
She stiffened her entire body, resisting him with all her strength—but that only seemed to provoke him more.
It was the moment Labou reached out his other arm to grab her shoulder.
“Eek!”
The hand that had almost touched her was suddenly pulled away. Labou flailed his arms in the air, trying to shield himself from a sudden downpour of liquid. It gushed from above, drenching his head and face.
The strong stench of alcohol, far more potent than anything that had come from Labou, permeated the air. Anshi stepped back quickly and looked up.
“Oh dear, my apologies.”
A waterfall of liquor poured down outside the window.
“I was trying to toss it because it didn’t taste good—I didn’t know anyone was down there.”
Of course, it was him.
The man holding the inverted bottle showed no trace of remorse. Even as he spoke, he kept the bottle tipped until the very last drop had fallen.
Only then did he finally right the bottle. But he wasn’t done. Instead of setting it down, he lightly twirled it by the neck.
Whoosh, whoosh. The bottle wobbled dangerously.
Like it might slip at any moment.
“Careful.”
A lazy smile curved his lips. Speaking like a whisper to the stunned Labou, the man said:
“My grip tends to be a bit weak.”
“Uh… ah…”
Labou let out a strange groan before scurrying off. It was unclear whether he was running, walking, or crawling away. The man chuckled as he watched Labou’s pathetic retreat, then turned his gaze.
“Sir Damion.”
At Anshi’s call, the man leaned further out the window, resting his elbow on the sill. His voice was soft.
“Would you come up for a moment?”
A few hours earlier.
Damion had arrived early in the south to finalize negotiations with Marquis Bellow. The meeting, which began in the morning, ended on a positive note—exactly as expected.
As Damion straightened his clothes and rose to leave, the middle-aged Marquis Bellow said:
“Don’t forget the condition—one thousand percent return on the investment. Only then will we move to the next stage.”
“I’ll be back next month. You’ll need to start considering how you plan to offer your support.”
“Should I call you bold, or just shameless?”
Despite his words, a satisfied smile tugged at the corners of the marquis’s lips.
To others, Damion’s confidence might seem like mere youthful bravado—but somehow, it felt believable. That impression came from months of watching and learning who Damion really was.
“Will I be able to meet Count Rozel next time?”
“That depends on your results.”
“I’d be even more grateful if you brought the Duke of Laventhus along as well.”
“So it’s shameless, then.”
The Duke of Laventhus was the third son of a previous Duke Orphe two generations ago. Though he didn’t inherit the Orphe title, he distinguished himself in the military and earned his own dukedom.
Marquis Bellow and Count Rozel were also descendants of the 5th and 4th generation Dukes of Orphe, respectively. Now, they all held seats in the Orphe family’s council of elders.
In the Kingdom of Belgader, old noble families often formed such elder councils. Even if someone didn’t directly inherit a family line, holding a high title or rank could make them an elder and grant them influence within the family.
Each family’s council wielded different levels of influence, but none could be ignored. Elders both enjoyed the benefits of their family’s power and helped uphold that very prestige.
In families like the Orphe Dukedom, where the individual duke held overwhelming power, the influence of the elders was relatively weaker. The stronger the duke, the more external gains the elders could receive—so most simply observed rather than interfered.
But Damion de Orphe, the second son of the current Duke Orphe, had started visiting these elders one by one—shaking up their complacent peace.
His objective was outrageously bold and crystal clear.
He wanted to succeed the dukedom.
In this country, primogeniture was the norm, so the successor would naturally be the eldest son, Kardian. Yet Damion declared he would overturn that and asked for their support.
Even a duke couldn’t ignore the elders if they all raised their voices in unison. That was what Damion wanted.
Clever and calculating, he offered not internal family power but tangible external profit in return.
His business sense was so sharp, it made one wonder why he ever wasted his talents in the military. Considering his return as a war hero, perhaps even victory in war had been just another calculated success.
In any case, this investment served as a trial—whether or not he was worth supporting.
And Marquis Bellow was now half-convinced that this man would, indeed, become the next Duke Orphe.
“So then, do you think I should invest in that railroad connecting to the neighboring country? I’ll try whatever you suggest.”
“Are you implying that you’ve decided to support me, in a roundabout way?”
“You could at least share that one bit of information. How stingy.”
“Let’s say I’m being precise.”
“See you next month.”
The marquis chuckled as he left. Damion smirked, understanding the message behind those parting words.
He pulled out a pocket watch intricately engraved with vine patterns. There was still time before he was to meet that woman.
Perhaps he’d stop by the beach.
Damion climbed into a white automobile and drove himself to a certain coastal spot—one he had taken note of during his previous visit to Baron Ziden’s estate.
The car stopped at a roadside with a view of the sea. Damion leaned against it and silently watched the ocean.
He could’ve gone closer, but didn’t. Walking across the wide beach would only get sand on his shoes, and brushing off such fine grains was more trouble than it was worth.
A cool breeze blew. The wind in coastal regions always felt strange yet nostalgic. So did the endless blue spread before him.
The sight of blue waves gently advancing across the sand, only to retreat like a startled animal, never grew tiresome.
But then, a distant presence disrupted the peace.
Anshi de Lubelsa.
There she was.
Damion’s eyes narrowed. The woman was neatly plating refreshments atop a picnic mat. He watched quietly, his deep eyes gradually filling with her image.
Just as he admired the waves, he now admired her.
There was something about her that resembled those waves. Coming in with just enough force—then pulling back as if nothing had happened.
Crash. A sudden loud wave slammed the shore, loud in his ears. It was strong enough to wet the sand even from afar. Waves sometimes struck hard without warning—then fled.
She looked calm, but somehow didn’t seem particularly gentle either.
At that moment, Baron Ziden’s daughter, who had been running along the sand, approached Anshi.
The two exchanged words in front of the mat. Though the sound didn’t carry, it didn’t seem to be a pleasant conversation.
The negotiation appeared to have failed. Ziden’s daughter picked up a plate—and slammed it into the sand.
