This Marriage Must End In Tragedy Chapter 8
Chapter 8: The Woman Who Resembled the Waves
Ansi tried to pull her arm away from his grip, but he wouldn’t let go so easily.
“Hm? What did Trish say?”
“Oh, come on! I heard she dragged you out for a picnic even after you got off work in the lobby.”
“That has nothing to do with you, Young Master.”
“Don’t say that, Rain. I’m sorry… I’ll apologize on her behalf.”
Rabou shook his head with a mix of frustration and sorrow.
Ansi already knew. She was well aware that this young master harbored some fondness for her.
But she had no intention of explaining her recent encounter with Trish to him.
Even if she were to tell Rabou what had happened, it wouldn’t change anything. If anything, it would only provoke Trish further or bring unnecessary trouble.
Even now, instead of saying he’d speak with Trish and make sure it wouldn’t happen again, all he could do was offer a vague apology on her behalf.
Ansi wasn’t foolish enough to hope for peace from a young master who couldn’t even manage his own affairs.
“There’s no need to apologize. But please—let go of my hand.”
Ansi tried once more to pull her arm free. Rabou’s eyes followed her movement, his gaze falling to where his hand still grasped her wrist.
“Are you angry, Rain?”
His heavy gaze clung to her. Instead of releasing her, his thumb began to slowly stroke her skin. The unmistakable intent behind the motion made a chill crawl down Ansi’s spine, and she shrank back instinctively.
It seemed Rabou had just made up his mind. Tilting his head, he bent slightly forward, bringing his face closer to hers. His eyes were filled with conviction.
“Rain, what do you think of me?”
“Don’t say that. It doesn’t have to be complicated. Just tell me how you feel right now. Are you excited? Is your heart fluttering…?”
“I feel threatened. So let me go.”
“Why would you say that?”
It was only the truth, but Rabou’s face contorted with anger. Tightening his lips, he suddenly yanked Ansi toward him.
For the first time in a long while, Ansi felt genuine fear. The man before her was large and strong, and it was nearly impossible to slip free from his grip.
Ansi braced herself, using every ounce of her strength to resist being dragged away. But that seemed to irritate him even more.
Just as Rabou reached out with his other arm to grab her shoulder—
The moment his hand touched her, it was yanked away by a sudden downpour. He flailed wildly to shield himself from the torrent cascading from above, but the liquid splashed over his head and streamed down his face in thick rivulets.
The stench of alcohol filled the air—strong, pungent, and far more aggressive than anything Rabou had reeked of.
Ansi took several quick steps back, her eyes darting upward.
“Oh, dear. My apologies.”
A waterfall of whiskey poured from the window above.
“I was going to throw it out—it tasted awful. Didn’t expect someone to be standing there.”
Of course, it was that man.
The bottle in his hand was still upside down. He showed no hint of remorse. Even as he spoke, he continued holding it that way, draining it to the last drop.
Only when the final drops had fallen did he right the bottle. But it wasn’t over yet. Instead of placing the bottle down, he gripped it by the neck and gave it a playful shake.
Whish, whish. The bottle swung precariously.
As if it could drop at any second.
A lazy smile played on his lips. Still leaning against the window, he murmured to the dazed Rabou below.
“My hands tend to be a little… shaky.”
Rabou choked out an awkward sound, then fled in panic. Whether he was running, walking, or crawling away was unclear—his retreat was comical, absurd.
The man at the window chuckled at the ridiculous sight before turning his gaze elsewhere.
At Ansi’s call, he leaned a little further over the sill, resting his elbow on the windowsill. His voice was soft and unhurried.
“Would you mind coming up for a moment?”
Damion had arrived in the southern region early that day to finalize negotiations with Marquis Bellow. The meeting, which had begun that morning, concluded with a result exactly as favorable as he’d anticipated.
As Damion stood, straightening his clothes, the middle-aged Marquis of Bellow addressed him.
“Don’t forget the terms. One thousand percent return on the investment. Without that, the next stage won’t even be considered.”
“I’ll be back next month, then. You might want to start considering how you’ll express your support, my lord.”
“Ha! I don’t know whether to call you bold or brazen.”
Despite his words, a smile of satisfaction played at the corners of the marquis’s lips.
To some, the confidence of this young man might seem nothing more than youthful bravado. Yet something about him made it feel entirely plausible. That impression had only grown over the past few months as the marquis observed him.
“Will I have the pleasure of meeting Count Rozel next time?”
“That depends on your performance.”
“It would be even better if you could bring along Duke Laventus.”
“Hah, so we’re going with ‘brazen’ after all.”
Duke Laventus was the third son of the second-generation Duke of Orphe. Though he had not inherited the Orphe title, his exceptional military service earned him his own ducal title.
Marquis Bellow and Count Rozel, too, were descendants of the fifth and fourth Dukes of Orphe, respectively. As such, they currently sat among the elders of the Orphe family.
In the Kingdom of Belgader, the noble houses of old each had their own council of elders. Even those not directly descended from the bloodline—so long as they held significant social positions or noble titles—were brought into the fold and made members of these councils.
The influence of the elders varied from house to house, but there was no family powerful enough to ignore them entirely. They were both beneficiaries of their house's prestige and the very force that helped elevate it further.
In houses where the individual wielded great power, such as those led by dukes, the elders held comparatively less sway. The more power a duke held, the more external profits the elders could accrue under his name.
And so, the elders often chose to relinquish their rights and remain silent observers rather than active participants.
However, Damion de Orphe, the second son of the current Duke Orphe, had begun disrupting that comfortable inertia, visiting one elder after another, shaking the dust off their long-idle peace.
His ambition was nothing short of brazen—and unmistakably clear.
Succession beyond the Duke Orphe.
In a nation where primogeniture was the norm, the heir to a title was invariably the firstborn. Cardian, in this case, had already been designated the successor. But Damion spoke out. He declared his intent to overturn that order and requested their support.
Even the Duke Orphe could not afford to ignore the elders if they chose to speak with one voice. And that was exactly what Damion was counting on.
This shrewd and cunning young man had no intention of compensating them with power within the house. Instead, he offered real, tangible gains from outside.
One had to wonder why a man with such acumen had spent so many years buried in the military. His sense for business was so sharp, it seemed a waste. And given the title he returned with—"war hero"—one had to ask if even his battlefield victories were a product of that same calculated skill.
In any case, this current investment opportunity served as a test to determine whether or not the elders would step into his camp.
And Marquess Bellow was, by now, more than halfway convinced that this man would indeed become the next Duke Orphe.
“So then,” Bellow said, “you think I should invest in that railroad linking us to the neighboring country? Fine, I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Is that your roundabout way of saying you’ve decided to support me?” Damion asked.
“Well, you could at least give me that bit of information. Don’t be so stingy.”
“Let’s just say it’s a sure thing.”
With a hearty chuckle, Marquess Bellow departed. At the hidden message in his parting words, Damion gave a faint smile.
He pulled out a pocket watch, finely crafted and adorned with an intricate vine motif. There was still time before he was to meet that woman.
Perhaps he would stop by the beach.
Climbing into a white automobile, Damion took the wheel himself and headed toward a coastal area—a place he had taken note of during his previous visit to Viscount Ziden’s estate.
The car came to a halt along a seaside road. He leaned casually against it, gazing out at the ocean in silence.
He could have gone down to the water’s edge, but he didn’t. Walking across the wide expanse of sand would only get grains stuck in his shoes, and he had no desire to deal with brushing off every speck of it later.
A cool breeze blew by. The wind in seaside regions always felt strangely foreign, yet oddly nostalgic. The endless stretch of blue added to that feeling.
The way the gentle waves advanced over the sand, only to retreat as if fleeing—it was a sight he could watch forever without growing tired.
What broke that serene calm was the sound of someone moving, a distance away down the beach.
Damion’s eyes narrowed. The woman was arranging refreshments on a picnic mat with deft precision. He watched her quietly. His deep eyes, without him even noticing, had become filled with her image.
He gazed at her as he had gazed at the sea.
There was something about her that resembled the waves. She would press in gently, only to recoil as if nothing had happened.
Crash.A sudden, forceful wave struck the shore, the roar reaching his ears. It was large enough to soak sand well beyond its usual reach. Waves, on occasion, would lash out without warning, delivering sharp impacts before vanishing again.
Calm though they might seem, they weren’t always kind. And that, too, she resembled.
Just then, Viscount Ziden’s daughter, who had been running around the beach, walked toward Ansi.
The two exchanged words before the mat. Though he couldn’t hear them, it didn’t seem like a pleasant conversation.
Apparently, the negotiation had failed. Ziden’s daughter picked up a plate and slammed it down into the sand.