Five years ago.
As the youngest, Tristan, was nearing adulthood, the King and Queen began looking for a territory to bestow upon their son. That’s when they found the peaceful domain of Blue Atrium, which conveniently had no heir.
But the lord of Blue Atrium wasn’t about to let it go without a fight. He decided to suddenly “remember” the illegitimate child he’d had with a maid years ago and claim the boy was actually his legitimate successor.
Seriously, what kind of bastard knocks up a maid, throws her and the baby out, and then comes crawling back seventeen years later? A guy like that should have each of his limbs tied to a different electric scooter and dragged through the streets of Times Square…
…Ugh, calm down. This world doesn’t have a Times Square.
After scouring for clues about the mother and child’s whereabouts, the lord eventually found his seventeen-year-old son, who’d been scraping by doing mercenary work.
That boy was Richard Ray. The one we now know as Rick.
Naturally, the boy pushed back, demanding to know what kind of bullshit this was. But being promised a whole territory? That was a little too sweet to turn down.
And so began the high-stakes gamble between a scumbag father and his estranged son.
Step one was for the boy to sue his father for official recognition as a legitimate heir.
Of course, the whole thing was staged. The lord gathered witnesses willing to commit perjury and say, “Richard is indeed the legitimate son of the lord and his lawful wife.”
But like hell the Royal Family didn’t know what was going on.
At the King’s command, Count Redfield intervened by putting pressure on the boy’s mercenary guild, blocking him from appearing in court. With the plaintiff absent, the trial collapsed.
Even as the mercenaries dragged him away, the boy didn’t resist. He’d grown disgusted with himself—for even briefly considering betraying his mother for money.
Afterward, Rick shut himself off and wandered the world until he happened to find work in Baron Meyer’s territory… and there, met Maria, the baron’s niece. And he fell in love.
But having watched his mother’s life destroyed, Rick wanted neither marriage nor romance. He kept his feelings hidden and silently vowed to protect Maria’s happiness from the sidelines.
‘In the original story, he just quietly pined after Maria the whole time.’
He didn’t seem to be scheming revenge against the Royal Family for stealing Blue Atrium.
But then again, the story only followed Maria’s romance, so it’s not like we saw everything. Wouldn’t be surprising if deep down, he still hated both his father and the royals.
‘If it were me, instead of going after the Royal Family or the Count’s house, I’d have gone straight for that lord’s family jewels. Just saying.’
You never know what someone’s really thinking, so better safe than sorry.
Which means—if that skull mask at Sacred Salon really does belong to Rick Ray!
‘I’d better not talk to him too much if we meet again today. No good can come from chatting with someone like that.’
Wow. All that fluttery interest I had in him earlier just disintegrated.
Now, what kind of dress should I wear to avoid being recognized?
…That was the thought running through my head the moment I jumped to my feet—
When I suddenly realized something huge.
I forgot to take off the cast.
“KYAAAAH!”
The world tilted. The maids came running.
“My Lady, are you alright?”
“Oh no, oh no! Let’s get the cast off right away!”
Inside the heavy plaster cast, the ankle that had been totally fine just this morning gave a deep, ominous throb, throb or pain.
* * *
Thankfully, it didn’t feel like I’d sprained it again.
It was more like when you’ve been sitting in a study room for thirty minutes with your ankle folded under your thigh, and then stand up only for your whole leg to go tingly and numb. The only issue was that the pain had dragged on until late afternoon.
‘Should I just skip the salon today?’
But I got nervous about whether there was a deadline for coin redemption, so I dressed to the nines, threw on my coat, and headed to Sacred Salon anyway.
“Welcome. Please use this entrance today.”
I followed the staff member in the beaked mask through what looked like a ventilation duct, and once again I was greeted by that bizarre, over-the-top atmosphere that no amount of second visits could prepare you for.
Lively music, the faint scent of alcohol, bursts of laughter, warmth… And the fluffy doorman.
“How’s it going, Lady Witch?”
The large grey dog sniffed me once, gave a single elegant wag of its tail, and turned around to lead me inside.
The redemption process was simple. A staff member holding a notebook approached and asked while taking my order:
“Do you have a wager to redeem today?”
“Yes. I bet on ‘the couple who’d dance first at Her Majesty the Queen’s May Ball’ last week.”
“Understood. I’ll verify and issue your coin shortly.”
Moments later, I had a coin-sized token in my hand. On one side was a raised design that looked like layers of hardened lava.
“This physical coin is just a keepsake. Even if you lose it, we’ll still have a record on file, so don’t worry.”
“Is there a time limit to claim them?”
“If you don’t collect within four weeks of the bet, we reclaim the coin. Please keep that in mind.”
Four weeks? That’s pretty generous. Should’ve just come next week.
I sipped the non-alcoholic mojito I’d ordered and checked on my right leg under the table. Still had a lingering little buzz of pain.
Damn cast.
I could walk, sure. But…
‘He’s here again this week too, Skull Mask.’
If that really is Rick Ray? Then even the tiniest hint that my right leg’s acting up could give away who I am.
Better to stay put, I figured, and settled into a nearby table.
It was close to the coin redemption area, so I could clearly hear everyone chatting after cashing in their bets.
Naturally, what stood out most in all that chatter were the names I recognized.
“His Highness Tristan is really something else. He just ditched his fiancée in front of the Queen?”
“From what I heard, the scene got pretty awkward.”
“Yeah, I heard too! The Young Duke asked Maria to dance, but Maria looked for the Prince, who then refused her and went looking for his fiancée.”
“Bwahaha! What kind of comedy of errors is that? That can’t be right.”
One person burst out laughing, imagining the absurd scene. The speaker raised their voice, clearly annoyed.
“I’m serious! The mood got so weird that Her Majesty ended up stepping in and saying a debutante should get first priority.”
The raised voice attracted more and more eavesdroppers. Wait, something happened at the ball? Everyone knows those families. Really?
Then someone piped up with suspicion.
“Doesn’t that sound too staged? Could someone have manipulated the bet?”
“Are you implying Her Majesty rigged it?”
“One of the four people caught circling around might’ve been involved in the bet.”
Gulp. My heart nearly dropped into my stomach.
Another voice jumped in, curious.
“You’re right. What if they declined the dance on purpose just to tilt the odds…?”
The conversation was turning into a slow-burn detective game, and my mouth was going dry.
Salon Rule #1: If a person involved in the wager is one of the bettors, they get booted.
I was safe when it came to the staff—they wouldn’t care.
But what was I supposed to do about these gossipy members sniffing around my identity?
‘Would the staff intervene if I reported this?’
Meanwhile, the aimless gossiping just kept tightening its noose—
“There was only one woman who bet on ‘Maria and Tristan’ last week. And if it were Maria herself, she wouldn’t be allowed to redeem, so that means…”
“It was probably the Prince’s fiancée. That quiet one. Her name was Do… Dodo?”
“Pffft! It wasn’t that ridiculous. It was something plain, just like her face.”
That was it. Time to shut this down.
I spun in my seat, slammed my mojito glass on the table loud enough to echo, and locked eyes with the gossiping table.
“Gentlemen, what a way to ruin your drinks with that conversation.”
“Hmm? And who might you be?”
“The person who bet on ‘Maria and Tristan’ in the May Ball wager.”
“Oh…”
“So what if I am the Prince’s fiancée? I’m not breaking any rules, so are you planning to threaten me outside the salon or something?”
“N-No! That’s not what we meant. It’s just…”
“Don’t bother making excuses. You sound as pathetic as your face looks behind that mask.”
“W-What was that?!”
“Mm-hmm.”
I ignored the fuming guy and casually propped my good leg up on the table. The sheer brazenness left them all stunned.
My emergency solution was simple.
Just act like someone who couldn’t possibly be Dori Redfield.
I had a clear role model.
‘Big sis Natalie, lend me your strength!’
All I had to do was be as outrageously rude as she was.
Locking eyes with the guy in the mask, I fired my next shot.
“People say that the insults we choose reflect our own insecurities. Didn’t you call the fiancée’s face forgettable just now?”
“W-Well, it’s not exactly a lie, is it? The older Redfield sisters are beauties, but the youngest is kind of plain!”
“Amazing how well you’ve analyzed the face of someone who barely even shows up at social events. I must applaud your passion.”
I clapped mockingly. The man looked totally thrown.
“W-What the hell did you say?”
“Oh? Didn’t follow? I just meant, if tearing people down is the only achievement of your entire life, then congratulations. Not used to being praised, huh?”
He seemed speechless. His breathing turned ragged, and I could even see the flush on his face beneath the mask.
I held up three fingers. Everyone’s eyes naturally followed.
Then, dropping one finger at a time, I finished with a line Natalie would’ve loved.
“I’ll give you three seconds to come up with a comeback. Don’t pretend to laugh it off like ‘a real man can let it go,’ only to go cry about it at home later.”
“…!”
The guy’s mask wobbled from how hard he was breathing. Still had no comeback, huh? That was my cue.
I swept up the hem of my skirt and gave a big theatrical curtsey. The jewelry on my red dress sparkled like stars.
“Feel free to come chat again if you’ve got something worth more than a drink in your hand.”
I burst out laughing and dropped my leg back down. Gave them a smug little wave with my fan, just to be extra insufferable.
No way anyone here’s gonna think I’m Doris Redfield after that.
Thanks, Dori, for being so mild-mannered all this time!
Peeking over my fan, I side-eyed the same gossipy crowd. The guy I’d roasted was still fuming, but no one else was backing him up.
Well, yeah. What’s the point of cozying up to a guy in an anonymous salon if he’s got zero info, zero wit, and zero presence?
Haaah…
My hands were shaking belatedly.
‘Verbal combat is seriously terrifying!’
I sipped my freshly ordered drink and tried to calm myself.
The next wager tied to high society would probably be that event, right?
The June Hunting Competition.
💟 Translator Notes 💟
I swapped out 광화문 (Gwanghwamun) for Times Square for immediate impact. 광화문 (Gwanghwamun) is a major landmark and symbolic gate in Seoul, often referenced in exaggerated or dramatic hyperbole in modern Korean expressions to indicate: public exposure/spectacle, humiliation/protest/attention. It’s a place tied to a lot of national and emotional drama because of its historic and political significance.
So when someone jokes about dragging someone through “Gwanghwamun,” it’s got this weighty, hyper-public, semi-political vibe to it.
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