Please Kill Me - Chapter 85
Leonid’s reason kept denying Yekaterina’s words. She carried the Offenbach name as an adopted daughter, which implied she was treated well there.
She should have been living well.
So well that it made no sense for her to come looking for him to seek death.
‘….Damn it.’
Leonid shook his head lightly to clear his thoughts and asked again.
“Don’t you participate in social circles? Don’t you have any acquaintances?”
“I’ve never really talked to anyone, so I wouldn’t know.”
“What about family? Someone within the estate? Allies or subordinates?”
“Of course, I care for Offenbach.”
But caring did not imply closeness, nor did it guarantee that they cared for her in return.
Yekaterina didn’t say it, but Leonid felt the weight of the words she didn’t speak.
“Really, no one at all?”
Leonid murmured foolishly.
By all accounts from Yuri, Yekaterina was a cherished adopted daughter. Leonid trusted Yuri for two reasons.
Yuri had a good eye for people, and because it’s not uncommon for noble families to adopt without discrimination—often they don’t need to hide it.
Nobles frequently adopt from collateral families or orphanages for various reasons, often strategic.
The most common reason is to have someone to fulfill duties that their own biological children should be handling, such as compulsory military service—if there is an adopted child, the direct descendants don’t need to step forward.
Given that this is a common reason for adoption, there’s no reason for nobles to treat adopted children just like their own biological children, and no one would criticize them for discrimination.
So, if Offenbach was just pretending to care for Yekaterina, they had no reason to do so.
‘And Yuri said so.’
He had believed that their affection for Yekaterina was genuine.
But was that not the case?
“I don’t….understand.”
Leonid muttered, almost unconsciously. But his mumble was met with a response, as if it was expected.
“If it’s hard for you to understand, then don’t. It’s fine if you think I’m lying.”
“You said it yourself. But it’s okay if I can’t trust you?”
“Does my word or opinion…. even matter?”
She was truly curious.
“…”
It was then that Leonid realized he couldn’t straightforwardly deny her question. He had dismissed her opinions several times before, about guarding duties, following Vasily, and other minor matters.
Of course, he had his reasons for those decisions, and he was confident he would make the same choices again.
But why did something feel off now?
Was it because Yekaterina no longer voiced her opinions? Because she didn’t react even when told she can’t be trusted?
Perhaps if Yekaterina had scoffed or gotten angry about his distrust, he wouldn’t feel this offended. However, she was calm.
As if being ignored or not trusted was utterly normal for her.
And that realization was clear.
“….Then, do you find every conversation with me meaningless?”
They were having conversations, but it could be meaningless. It was unimaginable to Leonid.
He had unconsciously hoped, even if not through words, perhaps a mere quiver of her lips would deny it.
“…”
But Yekaterina did not respond. There was no disturbance, no attempt to reply.
A silence like a torn-out page from a book filled the gap. A blank space.
Leonid knew better than anyone what her silence meant.
Yekaterina would never respond. At that realization, a hollow laugh escaped him.
“…haha.”
His laugh was a strangled sound.
The conversation he had just shared with Yekaterina, the moments he had been agitated and raised his voice, all controlled by her—were nothing but meaningless to her.
Swamped by a feeling of emptiness, Leonid’s face contorted in a way that hovered uncertainly between a grimace and a smile.
“Yeah, if you say so, what more can I say?”
“…”
“I’ve changed my mind. Stay in the palace until tomorrow. According to you, words are utterly meaningless, and I can’t trust you.”
This meant he couldn’t dismiss the possibility of Yekaterina disobeying him and remaining in the palace on her own accord.
With that, Leonid turned and walked away.
His steps felt like he was fleeing. Each word he had spoken felt painfully lame, and he couldn’t bear to stay there any longer.
Bang! The door slammed shut behind him, and he buried his face in his hands. His cheeks burned as if he had severe frostbite. He felt every pulse throbbing painfully against his palms.
‘What is it about that woman?’
