Chapter 70
Caesar deliberately wove through the groups of gossiping nobles, leaving behind silent warnings with a grim expression.
Just then, Beatrice—who had been nowhere in sight—appeared, and Caesar’s steps, which had been hurrying toward her in relief, abruptly halted. It was because of the Crown Prince, who emerged behind her. In his hand was the shawl that had previously been draped over his wife’s shoulders.
He wanted to grab him by the collar that very moment and demand to know what kind of stunt he was pulling, but Caesar once again held back when his wife said she wasn’t feeling well. Even then, the stench of suspicion was growing wildly in his heart.
Beatrice’s behavior in the carriage only added fuel to his suspicions. As she averted his gaze and blushed, her suspicious demeanor made Caesar feel like he was about to lose his mind.
But unexpectedly, from the very next day, Beatrice began approaching him again. Though he was glad, the sudden attention felt so unstable that he couldn’t hold her in peace. Affection offered as if it were a favor could be snatched away at any moment…
“Actually, His Highness suggested I might serve as a lady-in-waiting to the future Crown Princess.”
The moment she said those words, Caesar felt as though all his worst suspicions had solidified into a terrifying reality.
A lady-in-waiting to the imperial family? Even Caesar, who knew little of such things, was at least aware that this was a typical strategy for royalty seeking to take a mistress—by placing someone close to them in a subordinate role.
And to become the lady-in-waiting to the woman who would marry the Crown Prince? That ever-smiling man had seemed harmless, but it was clear now. The Crown Prince was far more malicious than he appeared.
So the engagement might have fallen through, but did he still desire Beatrice? When Caesar sent his marriage proposal to the Duke, had the prince readily agreed, thinking it a good excuse to marry her off while still planning to keep her nearby as a lady-in-waiting?
But Beatrice… if she didn’t want it, Caesar was confident he could stop it. The problem was, his wife almost seemed to welcome the prince’s suggestion.
If, by some chance, she did want to become the Crown Prince’s lover… was he in any position to stop her?
His head, spinning from anxiety, couldn’t reason clearly, and he hadn’t even realized it.
And then, as if unaware of the dark suspicions festering inside him, Beatrice shocked him with an unexpected proposal.
“I want to make love. Right now.”
“We’re not turning the lights off tonight.”
Though his body reacted instantly to her long-missed touch, Caesar couldn’t hide his confusion at her sudden change in behavior.
Even in such a situation, refusing Beatrice was something he simply could not do.
The shame of ravishing her body like a rutting beast—when until now he had always treated her with care and solemn restraint—and the hellish ecstasy that came with it made Caesar quickly lose all sense.
The moment he finally buried himself completely in her, he was overwhelmed with such rapture that he felt even a blade at his throat couldn’t have stopped him.
But the price of being blinded by the pleasure her body gave him was steep. His body writhed in satisfaction like never before, but his mind only became more broken.
Though he could do nothing but be dragged along wherever her will took him, the unresolved suspicions continued to torment him.
He had nightmares of Beatrice, made experienced through their intimacy, becoming the Crown Prince’s mistress.
There was no actual evidence yet, but an inexplicable sense of dread lingered. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to question her—perhaps he was afraid of what her answer might be.
Nothing was certain yet, so he shouldn’t jump to conclusions. But didn’t this sudden change in her behavior have a reason?
No, Beatrice wasn’t that kind of woman. But he was worried. Then perhaps he should just ask her honestly? But what if she really said she wanted to leave him?
And so Caesar was tossed between extremes, caught in the hot and cold bath of emotions he had created.
Then the night in question came.
“Camilla Estern sent me quite the amusing invitation. I thought I’d go have a good time with my betrothed.”
Looking at the golden-haired, handsome man smiling so breezily, all Caesar could think was: disgusting bastard.
And under the guise of guarding that bastard, he entered the party—and there, he witnessed something unbelievable.
His wife was there. In this place filled with the most debauched and reckless nobles of the capital.
Here, with Edgar Tyrenion.
He wanted to believe he was mistaken, but there was no way he couldn’t recognize her, even as he supported her staggering, delicate body.
The woman who looked like a fallen angel in her beauty—was his wife.
Caesar’s thoughts screeched to a halt.
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