* * *
“CEO Cynthia, a lot of letters have arrived. Not just from the Rutemian high society, but also from the upper class of the Kingdom of Medea.”
My excellent aide, Dahlia—who now calls me CEO—came in carrying a mountain of letters.
I skimmed through them.
Most of them weren’t about admiring my incredible achievements or wanting to meet me. No, they were clearly just trying to get a piece of the pie.
“Since you’ve started engaging in social activities, how about hosting a party at the residence?”
“As expected of my strategist. Great idea.”
“Please write up a guest list for the event. We’ll use it as a reference for your future network.”
As I picked up my fountain pen, I asked Dahlia,
“Are you in charge of the guest list for the military people, or is that up to Brigadier General?”
“You two can coordinate the list together.”
She stepped closer, eyes gleaming as she whispered,
“This may not be the battlefield, but in the capital’s high society, it’s usually the soldier’s spouse who holds the real power.”
Apparently, a soldier’s rank directly affects their spouse’s pecking order—and getting on the spouse of a superior officer’s good side could seriously impact promotions.
Good thing I was the wife of a general. If not, I’d probably be out there performing little skits and handing out kimchi samples to curry favor.
Looking at the letters in front of me, I started separating out the ones to discard first.
Naturally, a few faces I remembered from Medea made the list.
As I sorted them, Dahlia asked what my criteria were.
“These are the emotional damage group, these are the drama crew, and over here we’ve got the shady gossip circle…”
Despite my chipper tone, Dahlia’s expression slowly darkened.
“…It must’ve been really hard, dealing with all that prejudice.”
I smiled like it was nothing.
“Not really. Sure, people who carry prejudice always have to prove they’re harmless… but like right now, anyone can be judged in return. Maybe I’m just someone who’s gotten really good at telling who’s malicious and who’s kind.”
Better that than being fooled by a fake nice person and getting stabbed in the back.
Dahlia lowered her gaze and let out a sigh.
“I used to judge you with prejudice too, CEO Cynthia. I’m still ashamed of it.”
“It’s okay. No one’s free from prejudice. But they say a biased view eventually tips toward sincerity. You understood me and reached out first, didn’t you?”
There was a time I thought Dahlia hated me so much she purposely made my cocoa taste like water. My prejudice had created more prejudice. But if both people are decent, misunderstandings get cleared up eventually.
For some reason, Dahlia’s cheeks turned bright red as she cleared her throat.
“Thank you. Also… for reference in your social activities, I’ve prepared something with Aide Diego.”
“Thank you so much!”
I accepted the neatly prepared list she handed over.
“Wow, there’s a lot of outdoor stuff…”
Evening events included parties, plays, and operas. Daytime was full of tennis, hunting, horseback riding, golf—basically everything energetic and sun-drenched.
Terrible news for someone like me who doesn’t get along with UV rays. Wasn’t there anything like “lying in a cozy warm bed, chatting while eating snacks”?
“Dahlia, I’m really not good at any of this.”
These were the basic social skills any noble should have. But since I couldn’t exactly say I used to be a maid, I added an excuse.
“I lived in the countryside, so I never had the chance to do stuff like this.”
“I understand. Still, these are things people usually learn from a very young age.”
Dahlia’s expression turned a little complicated. Hiring a tutor now might stir up gossip.
She added,
“You can always start learning little by little. Actually, the soldiers are scheduled to play tennis during their leisure time today. Why not go watch?”
At her suggestion, I looked out the sun-drenched window.
Leisure time started at 4 p.m., so the tennis court would be shaded by the building by then.
My arm had mostly healed too. I should ask Masera to teach me.
I pictured a gentle husband patiently teaching tennis, and a clumsy but eager wife learning by his side.
He had been pretty mellow when we built the cat house, after all.
Resolute, I changed into comfortable clothes and headed outside.
* * *
Contrary to my sweet little plan of learning tennis in a wholesome, friendly way, Masera was far too busy betting on tennis matches with the others.
“Two to one!”
“Woooo!”
Seeing everyone in such breezy outfits made me feel chilly for no reason. Who the heck plays tennis in short sleeves in this weather? Are they yetis?
Masera, too, was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt.
I’d only ever seen him in formal uniforms, so seeing him dressed differently was oddly refreshing.
“Ooh… ohohoh?”
As I stared, my eyes widened at the way his arm muscles flexed and his veins popped every time he swung the racket. That was unfair. Pure weaponized biceps.
‘Right, focus.’
Snapping out of it, I approached a resting sergeant and asked for a quick tennis lesson.
Ten minutes into our educational bonding session:
“I suggest you consider a different hobby.”
The sergeant, after watching me swing and miss over and over again, politely recommended I give up.
With a pitiful expression, I asked,
“Am I that bad?”
“Yes. You are, without a doubt, inherently terrible at sports.”
The sergeant, cold as steel and born for the T in MBTI, nodded solemnly. Apparently, not even a sliver of hope would be granted.
After he left, I clutched the racket and kept trying on my own. Step one: actually hit the ball.
But no matter how many times I tried, I just couldn’t do it, and the harsh sting of reality began to set in. Maybe I should just give up?
Then, a hand landed on my shoulder.
“That’s not how you do it.”
Masera looked down at me with his usual deadpan face.
“Hold it like this.”
He took hold of my hand that was gripping the racket. He was close. Way too close. I was definitely aware of how close.
As he guided my wrist and showed me how to swing, I felt his warm breath graze the back of my neck.
“How’s your injury? Hope you’re not overdoing it.”
At his low whisper, I awkwardly smiled and flinched my shoulders.
“It’s fine.”
‘Why… does this feel weird?’
My heart started racing and my cheeks felt a little warm. This was not the kind of emotion a student should feel during a lesson.
“I’ll give it a try.”
Shaking my head to clear the weirdness, I quickly stepped away from him.
He tossed the ball lightly, but of course, my racket missed it by a mile.
After three more tries, Masera simply stood still and stared at me.
“Um… I guess it’s hopeless? Should I just give up?”
I asked, already wearing a look of gloom.
Was he going to say, Yes, you’re hopeless. Please stop embarrassing yourself.
As I braced for the blow, he spoke in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“It’s fine.”
“Huh?”
“No one’s good at something from the start. Just keep trying until it works.”
Technically I’d already been practicing for an hour, but I decided not to bring that up.
Holding up the ball, he gave me advice.
“I’ll toss it slowly this time. Just focus on the ball.”
I squinted and locked eyes on the target.
He threw it gently, slower than before.
Tap—
“Wow!”
It wasn’t exactly a clean hit, but the ball did graze the edge of my racket.
“Well done.”
I looked up at Masera, who praised me over such a minor success.
Somehow, the sun had shifted while we practiced, and soft orange rays of the afternoon were brushing against his hair. His sharp eyes seemed a little rounder, less guarded.
Then, all of a sudden, his mouth, which had been relaxed, tensed back up.
“You just said something I didn’t expect. The kind of thing someone who never gives up wouldn’t say.”
It sounded like an excuse more than a statement.
“So, in Brigadier General’s eyes, I’m someone who doesn’t give up?”
When I asked, Masera didn’t answer. He turned his back.
Ah. Classic retreat move. Guess he didn’t want to get dragged into some mushy coming-of-age moment.
I immediately chased after him.
“More importantly, we need to talk about the invitations. When would be a good time?”
“After dinner. I’ll come to your bedroom.”
Masera said this in his usual stiff tone and walked off.
I stared blankly at his back and muttered.
“…bedroom?”
It was just a perfectly wholesome discussion about party guests. Why did it suddenly feel weirdly spicy?
Shivering, I ran a hand down my arm.
