OB C2

If she could just smoke a single cigarette, enduring this would have been much easier.

It had already been a month since she quit—forced into it by a marriage she never wanted.

The woman who had once been Rose Davies, now Rose Crawford, let out a quiet sigh as she climbed the embassy stairs.

The party at the embassy had already been going on for three long hours.

“You can’t have a toast without Orturan’s most popular man! Go bring him at once. He’s probably in the gallery room.”

At the prime minister’s wife’s insistence that she bring her husband back to the main hall, Rose reluctantly set off.

The embassy’s gallery room had an unusual structure—only one door at the end of an L-shaped corridor, with nothing but curtains separating the corner.

As was typical during parties, the door was wide open.

Her husband sat alone on a velvet sofa in the far corner, seemingly lost in thought, not even noticing her entering the room.

As Rose approached him with visible reluctance, she suddenly stopped.

Voices.

“Boltonian, of all things. Crawford’s finally gone mad, hasn’t he? I truly can’t understand it.”

A loud, critical voice, followed by mocking laughter.

It came from beyond the curtain, where paintings were displayed.

“How much do you think Elliot Davies donated to the Conservative Party?”

“Oh, come on, it can’t be just money. It’s not like they’re short on funds. I think it’s true—he fell for her face. I was shocked the first time I saw her too.”

“Then why is someone with that kind of face still unmarried at her age?”

“Elliot Davies probably held out too long trying to sell his daughter at the highest price.”

“Honestly, what’s worse—being a Boltonian or being Elliot Davies’s daughter?”

“Both, which makes it the worst possible choice. Of all places, Bolton!”

There seemed to be three or four people.

Were they speaking like this because they didn’t realize someone was on the other side?

Or did they know—and simply not care?

After a brief moment of thought, Rose concluded it was probably the former.

Orturan people, at the very least, weren’t usually this openly cruel to someone’s face.

Not that she hadn’t heard such things before.

The news that the nation’s most beloved young politician had married a “barbaric Bolton woman” had caused an uproar across every newspaper, as if it were a national tragedy.

Patriotic papers subtly suggested concern that a wealthy foreign upstart might use marriage to gain political connections and negatively influence the country.

“I wonder if Crawford knows that vulgar merchant is already poking around in urban development projects just because he has a minister for a son-in-law. What a disgrace.”

“Is it our disgrace? It’s Crawford’s.”

“And doesn’t that make it Orturan’s disgrace? The papers will be noisy again soon.”

Her father—whom she hadn’t seen even once since the wedding—seemed to be fueling those concerns perfectly well.

Listening silently to the stream of insults, Rose clasped her trembling hands together.

Ever since coming to this country, an undeserved sense of guilt had followed her.

Even though none of this was her fault.

She glanced at her husband—the man who had become the subject of gossip because of her—

And froze.

Ray Crawford was smiling.

“Honestly, Duke Crawford has always been too arrogant, relying on his popularity. I suppose God decided to teach him humility.”

“Don’t think that attitude comes from mere popularity. He’s a Crawford. A Crawford.”

“He’s even His Majesty’s godson. That kind of attitude comes naturally.”

Even as the criticisms continued mercilessly, a faint smile rested on his elegant, handsome face.

Even from the side, it was unmistakable.

Each time Ray lazily tilted his shoe, the red wine in his glass rippled slightly.

What on earth was he thinking?

To smile while listening to that?

Another burst of laughter came from beyond the curtain—

And at the same moment, Ray slowly turned his head.

Toward her.

He didn’t look surprised to see her.

Only the faint smile disappeared.

Still holding his glass, he stared at her with a cold, expressionless face.

Rose found herself unable to speak.

If she spoke, those people might hear.

And more than that—what could she possibly say to someone being insulted like this?

There was only one thing she knew for certain:

A man who smiled when hearing insults about himself showed her nothing but complete indifference.

Why had Ray Crawford married her?

When he clearly couldn’t stand it.

That question had begun to trouble Rose more and more.

Whatever he had gained from her father in exchange for this marriage, it clearly wasn’t worth tolerating her existence.

After a moment, Ray set down his glass and rose quietly from the sofa.

Adjusting his attire, he walked toward her with effortless grace.

Without making any noticeable sound, he passed her.

Rose followed silently, like a stranger trailing another.

He walked at a pace just slow enough for her not to fall behind.

At the staircase, he stopped and extended his arm.

For a man who clearly disliked her, his manners were impeccable.

When she gently placed her hand on his arm, he whispered:

“Smile.”

Then he began descending the stairs.

Rose forced the corners of her lips upward, as if they might cramp.

Smiling at strangers for no reason was far more exhausting than she had expected.

In Bolton, if there was nothing to smile about, no one smiled.

Boltonians used to say:

A person smiling without reason is either a priest—or a madman.

By the time they reached the bottom, Ray’s face had once again taken on a natural, perfect smile.

“Don’t say anything unnecessary.”

He whispered again, guiding her forward.

The hall was filled with Orturans, all greeting them with bright smiles.

* * *

Exhausted from conversations with strangers, Rose absentmindedly tapped her fingers on the table, following the faint nocturne piano melody drifting through the noise.

The party had now passed four hours.

Her head throbbed from the dozen hairpins her maid Joanne had fixed into her hair.

A cold hand briefly rested on her moving fingers, as if telling her to stop.

She looked up.

Ray—her husband—was looking down at her.

The perfectly measured smile on his lips felt more like a warning than anything else.

That was usually what his smiles meant.

A warning. Or disregard.

Rose stopped fidgeting and instead took a sip from the wine glass he handed her.

Her throat was dry.

Quitting smoking was difficult—

But even harder was correcting all her habits.

Even the small ones she hadn’t realized she had.

They were so trivial that sometimes it felt less like fixing habits and more like carving pieces off herself.

As if she were slowly being erased.

Everything that made up Rose was, without a doubt, being “corrected.”

“Honestly, just by looking at her, Mrs. Crawford doesn’t seem very Boltonian.”

A merchant’s wife remarked curiously.

How many times had she heard that now?

Over a hundred times since coming to Orturan.

These people seemed to think Boltonians had three eyes or two noses.

“Oh, right! I heard her mother was from Antaka nobility, not Bolton. Lady Crawford mentioned it.”

For the past month, her mother-in-law Agatha had carefully shaped Rose’s image this way—

Erasing her father and emphasizing her deceased mother.

Orturan might dislike Antaka, but it didn’t look down on it.

Their long history of conflict was more like rivalry than contempt.

Even this party, hosted privately by the Antakan ambassador, was filled with Orturan nobles.

The only ones they truly looked down on were Boltonians.

Even in war, they had resented Bolton more than their actual enemies.

Agatha Crawford clearly disliked that her daughter-in-law was a mix of Antakan and Bolton blood—

But she seemed to think Antakan blood was better than nothing.

So that was always what she emphasized first.