Chapter : 12
“Uh, what…?”
What’s with that smile? Like some wicked little devil…
“Lend me some money.”
“…Excuse me?”
“I need to repair these crappy outer walls first, so lend me some cash.”
“Uh, that’s…”
“I’ll pay it all back later, so don’t worry too much!”
“…”
“And you must have a merchant company you trade with regularly and escort or something, right? Introduce them to me. You can do that, yes?”
Cleora leaned forward and smiled sweetly.
“You said you’d do anything.”
“…”
Adrian swallowed hard at that fiendish smile.
Something was definitely wrong here. Feeling the danger, Adrian quickly spun his brain into motion and cautiously opened his mouth.
“Um, Lady Heir. Could you please forget what I said a moment ag—”
“For reference, if you go back on your word, I’ll march straight to that high-and-mighty duke and tell him you tried to harass, trick, and exploit me. I’m sure you know exactly how that’ll end?”
“…”
Is this what they call disaster brought on by your own mouth? Blinded by greed, Adrian shed invisible tears at the punishment for running his mouth.
“You’ll do it, right?”
“…F–fine. I will.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure…”
Ha ha—Adrian was sobbing inside, but forced a smile on the surface.
He carefully scooted back.
“Well then, I’ll go carry out your command—”
“Oh, and one more thing.”
Adrian flinched at the voice that shot at him before he could even turn away properly.
There’s more?! He turned stiffly, fear in his eyes. Cleora flashed another bright smile.
“Move the southern mercenary branch here. It’ll be easier for me to use.”
“…”
Damn wretched witch.
“I—right away!”
…he almost said, but barely swallowed the words.
“Then, I’ll handle it quickly and return!”
He couldn’t die before gathering five husbands.
Reginald was not in a good mood.
Not because he spilled last night’s pickled herring all over the floor.
Not because the cat that lived in his coat shredded it.
Not because the servant kept making the same mistake no matter how many times he warned him.
“…From today on, if you need anything or find anything inconvenient, please inform me.”
The reason for his foul mood.
The blonde, red-eyed girl sitting arrogantly in front of him.
Because he was bowing his head to Cleora.
Grit!
Reporting for work early, Reginald had been summoned by Enoch and forced to accept an outrageous order.
“To test whether that child is suitable as a direct heir, I intend to keep her as a candidate, so treat her with every courtesy.”
He was told to faithfully and sincerely serve Cleora.
A staggering development, only two days in.
Reginald had assumed she’d be kicked out, just like the 30-something people before her who had come claiming to be from the direct bloodline.
And who could blame him? Cleora had no manners, no noble dignity, no trace of the centuries-old prestige of House Aizenbold.
Frankly, among all the thirty-some people he’d seen, Cleora was the least fitting.
But Enoch named her as a candidate.
Everyone—servants and retainers alike—had gaped with shock.
Reginald included. A command that made no sense.
But it came from Enoch. And knowing his lord’s character, Reginald had no choice but to follow.
Thus, Reginald—holder of a baron’s title earned through lifelong service to the Aizenbold house—was forced to serve Cleora, who was practically a commoner.
With bowed head, no less.
Even a baron, raised on noble pride, bowing to a commoner? Impossible.
He wanted to object, but…
“Oh, I don’t need anything. You can go now.”
Watching her lounged in a chair, feet on the table, casually reading her book—somehow, the sight felt natural.
He knew it shouldn’t, yet every time he looked at her, a strange sense of inevitability crept in and made him shrink.
Cleora fluttered a page, then flicked a glance at him still standing rooted in place.
“Got something to say? Why aren’t you leaving.”
“Well…”
“Speak comfortably.”
Her voice was dry and indifferent.
Hearing this bizarre reversal of status, the maids only rolled their eyes.
Under the weight of their gazes, Reginald let out a long sigh and slowly began.
“Well…”
“Oh, right. I have something to ask.”
“Yes?”
Cleora spoke faster than he could. She put her feet down.
Reginald frowned and lifted his head.
She opened the book she’d been reading and showed it to him.
“What is—huh?”
A page filled with lists.
The Aizenbold family’s investment portfolio.
“How did you get that? That should be—”
“I just went and took it.”
“Took it?!”
Aizenbold might have fallen, but it was still a storied noble house.
Many fled, yes, but plenty stayed to defend it with their lives.
Among them was the Drnarvon family, who had managed Aizenbold finances for generations.
And their head—Viscount Calipson—was infamous for being meticulous, cautious, and utterly mistrustful of others.
A man like that would leave investment records lying around carelessly?
It made no sense.
But unlike the flustered Reginald, Cleora looked perfectly calm.
“Anyway. What matters is—looking at this list, the returns seem absurdly low compared to the number of investments. Do you know anything about that?”
“That, I’m not sure… Finance is handled entirely by House Drnarvon. Other than His Excellency giving final approval, no one else is allowed to interfere.”
“Really?”
Cleora tilted her head and frowned.
“Did they eat something weird? They weren’t like this before. Why’s the state so bad?”
Did she just call the Drnarvon family those guys?
Reginald forced a stiff smile.
“Don’t tell me they’re still pulling the same tricks?”
Cleora rested her chin on her hand, tapped her cheek, and stared off as though thinking deeply.
Then her brows drew together.
“Is… something wrong…?”
Her voice sounded faintly angry. Reginald blinked in confusion.
“No, well. I’ll find out when I ask. More importantly—you were about to say something earlier?”
“It was nothing serious. Just letting you know there’ll be a simple background investigation this afternoon.”
“Investigation?”
“Yes. We still don’t know anything about you. And since you’re only a candidate, your identity must be clarified. Your name, age, who your parents were, and…”
He paused, eyes sharpening with seriousness.
“Your connection to the last known direct descendant, Cleora Vern.”
Cleora cocked her head, closing the ledger.
“What connection? Like I said—I am Cleora.”
“That joke won’t work. It’s been seventy years since Lady Cleora fell in battle. And what sane person would believe a child claiming to be an adult? I understand that you want recognition as the heir, but please refrain from using her name. If you wish to be recognized properly, then cooperate.”
“….”
Cleora stared at him, unmoving.
A simmering anger behind her red eyes.
‘He truly cares about the house.’
At least he wasn’t calling her a fake out of malice.
What Cleora needed wasn’t just money—she needed people.
To return to the house and punish the traitors who’d bled it dry, she needed hands and feet to act for her.
There were only a few loyal servants left—and many more traitors sucking the house dry.
Filtering them out was the first task.
“Hmmm.”
Cleora rested her chin on her hand and hummed softly.
Her red eyes, unwavering, fixed squarely on Reginald.
