Secret Love Affair between a Former Saint and a Dark Hero - Chapter 11
The Crown Prince felt a momentary pang of regret for not properly meeting Iora at least once before making this decision. However, it was inevitable. The decision had already been made, and only action remained.
He watched the woman stiffen, unable to hide her nervousness. He made an effort to maintain direct eye contact on such a subject, which resulted in a forced smile. Then, he fixed his smile. It didn’t feel right to smirk triumphantly at someone.
‘Iora, you’ve never even called me by my first name.’
She was so…different from the rumors. Her eyes, said to be dull, were beautiful violets, and her hair, said to be lackluster, was silver like a pretty jewel. Her speech, which was said to be stuttering and slow, was only timid and quiet, and her actions seemed to be cautious.
Crowning her with not-so-negative feelings, Ovid swallowed a bitter smile. What might that woman, hearing stories about Arcanda traversing the palace, have felt? From the same standpoint, comparing and contrasting, witnessing Arcanda gain more and more trust—what kind of jealousy might that have stirred within her?
Ovid’s train of thought was cut short, interrupted by Iora’s quiet voice.
“You’ve never called for me even once… Perhaps it was because you had no expectations.”
Furthermore, Iora seemed sadly aware of her own role.
“It seems that my lady has decided to be candid, so I shall too. Yes, that’s right. There were no expectations.”
“If so, then why…?”
Iora von Ribandt.
Initially, she was the fiancée in a relationship that could be broken off at any time, but he decided not to attach any meaning to the rumors he heard about her.
Then, he met Arcanda. After facing Arcanda, Ovid became certain. The saint who would marry him was undoubtedly Arcanda.
‘But in a different sense, it’s impressive. They say she’s doing unspeakable things out of greed to become a saint, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. She lacks that desire. That woman lacks ambition.’
But there was a desperation in Iora von Ribandt that was absent from most young women, and yet it was a strange kind of desperation, a sadness that was not so much venomous as it was sadly bitter.
The rumors describing her as dull, foolish, and full of greed didn’t seem credible when told down the grapevine. She just seemed ordinary. That’s it. She appeared to be an ordinary girl.
‘Either that, or she’s putting on an act for me.’
The prince had an eye for people. This wasn’t an act. Her wistful purple eyes, which were quite clear and sparkling, looked like flowers. He thought they were the eyes of someone vulnerable and easily hurt – delicate and fragile, like thin flower petals.
‘I am sorry for what I am about to say.’
Knowing the ambitious tendencies of the Ribandt family, Ovid anticipated that the daughter, much resembling her father, would follow in their footsteps. He visualized how she might react and contemplated how to counter them with some cold words. If she persisted in not giving up, he also considered what harsh statements he had to use to cut her off.
‘But you’re not like your father.’
Her voice, seeming crestfallen, and her lack of confidence were quite pitiable, but that was it. Ovid neatly cut off any inklings of sympathy. He had resolved not to engage, so there was no other choice.
“Miss Ribandt. Apologies, but do you believe you’ll become the saint? Are you convinced that the power will come to you? So, are you diligently studying and not letting go of your candidacy for sainthood?”
“What?”
“Do you have confidence in that position yourself? The rumors don’t seem to agree.”
Seeing her pale face, he felt like a terrible person himself, but Ovid cleared his throat and continued. The Ribandt heiress was an unavoidable relationship. Therefore, it had to be Arcanda, not that woman, who will become the saint.
“I… I…”
“I stand in a position where I seek to solidify relationships with the nobility. I’m sure you’re aware, but the current state of the Empire isn’t all that great. I want to establish a firm imperial authority. So… you’re in the way right now. Nobody has mentioned that you will be the next saint.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Ovid crossed his arms and spoke coldly.
“My fiancée who will stand beside me must be such a person. Someone who will be my strength, someone who will be able to exude the air of a perfect saint, so I hope you don’t think my decision is too harsh..”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about …I don’t know why, I don’t even know if you’re saying that…”
Looking directly at his visibly frightened betrothed, Ovid spoke.
“That’s why I need a companion who is certain, perfect, and thus, a saint whom no one can question. Do you think you’ll become such a saint?”
Perhaps those words weren’t directed at her, but rather at his momentarily shaken self.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“…”
Feeling like garbage and bitterly contemplating, Ovid slowly witnessed Iora’s gaze helplessly plummeting. Her eyes, once shining with confidence and a glimmer of hope, lost their sparkle and fell like a shooting star.
Ovid tapped the table with his fingers.
He disliked seeing her droop so powerlessly. He suppressed the desire to make her lift her head as before. He knew that the words he was about to utter would pierce through her heart.
Ovid raised his head.
“I cannot choose you as the saint.”
