Chapter 65 - Epilogue
“Oh, my darling, you’d look absolutely precious in this!”
Anne held up a frilly pink lace dress, swaying it enticingly in front of the child seated before her—a stunning little girl with golden hair and bright blue eyes.
“I’m sure I would.”
“Goodness, what kind of seven-year-old talks like that?” Anne sighed, shooting a glance at Damian, who stood nearby with his arms crossed.
“What kind of mother dresses her son like a daughter?”
Anne clutched her chest dramatically, as if wounded. “But—you’re just too pretty! It’s been my dream to have a little girl…” She even pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at nonexistent tears.
Watching his mother—the esteemed Duchess of Elpart—put on this performance, Damian exhaled a sigh far too weary for his age.
“Fine.”
Once again, he gave in, accepting the dress with resigned grace.
“Oh, really?!”
Before he could protest further, he was stuffed into the lace monstrosity, his long blond hair (which his mother had forbidden him to cut) meticulously brushed and tied with ribbons.
This bizarre ritual—forcing her perfectly healthy son into dresses and playing pretend—had been a long-standing tradition in House Elpart.
And Damian, despite his complaints, secretly didn’t mind.
After all, it was how he’d first met her.
—
Years later…
Shirley giggled, holding up an old portrait. “You have to explain this.”
Damian snatched it away, his ears red. “No.”
“You were adorable! Look at those ribbons—”
“I was seven,” he grumbled, tugging her into his lap. “And my mother has no shame.”
Shirley grinned, kissing his pouting lips. “Lucky for me.”
Because that day, at a garden party, a “little girl” in a frilly dress had glared at her with icy blue eyes—and Shirley had been smitten ever since.
This peculiar tradition had begun when the Duchess, who had long yearned for a daughter, was told by her physician after Damian’s birth that her frail health could not withstand another pregnancy.
The doting Duke of Elpart, unwilling to risk his wife’s well-being, enforced strict precautions—despite her persistent pleas—leaving Damian as their only child.
And so, Anne consoled herself by dressing her uncommonly beautiful son in the frilly dresses and ribbons she had collected, pretending he was the daughter she never had.
At first, everyone assumed it would last a year at most.
But Damian looked too good in dresses.
Two years passed. Then three.
The Duke, who indulged his wife’s every whim, raised no objections—and Damian himself, though occasionally exasperated, never outright refused.
Thus, he became his mother’s living doll—a role he played with reluctant grace.
—
That day was no different.
After being stuffed into yet another elaborate dress, Damian—now well-practiced in the art of enduring his mother’s whims—settled into the garden with a book, eventually dozing off in the sunlight.
Until he felt someone staring.
“You’re really pretty.”
Blinking awake, he found a girl with pink hair and bright green eyes—uncannily similar to the rabbits kept in the ducal estate—peering down at him.
“Who… are you?”
“I’m Shirley!”
Her grin widened, making her look even more like an overexcited bunny.
“I’m De—”
He caught himself, glancing down at his current attire. Ah. Right.
He knew he looked good in dresses—but he hadn’t expected to impress an actual girl.
And this one seemed genuinely smitten.
For once, he felt almost bad about crushing her illusions.
Almost.
—
“I’m Damian,” he said flatly. “A boy.”
Shirley blinked. Then—
“Oh.”
A pause.
“…You’re still pretty.”
Damian sighed.
This was how it all began.
And, if he was being honest, he also kind of wanted to see how long it would take for her to figure it out.
“My name is… Barbara.”
“That’s such a pretty name too! Can I… touch your hair?”
Shirley stared, mesmerized, at Damian’s golden locks shimmering in the sunlight.
“Go ahead.”
With an air of indulgence, he gathered a handful of his hair and placed it in her waiting hands.
“So pretty… So soft… You’re even prettier than my dolls!”
Her endless stream of awed compliments drew an involuntary laugh from him.
That day, he learned two things:
- This girl was the daughter of the Duchess of Lafez—his mother’s close friend.
- She was also his betrothed.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. His fiancée was gushing over how “pretty” he was—without realizing he was the very boy she was supposed to marry.
—
Later, his mother asked where he’d been.
“Your fiancée came to visit, you know.”
“I’ll see her next time,” he said dismissively.
Yet when Shirley returned, he voluntarily dressed up in one of his mother’s dresses to greet her.
Meeting after meeting, Shirley remained blissfully unaware.
At this point, Damian wasn’t sure if she was just that dense or if he truly looked that convincing.
But it didn’t matter.
Because thinking he was a girl, Shirley confided everything in him—no secrets, no barriers.
“Hey, guess what? I actually have a fiancé!”
“……”
“I was supposed to meet him today, but I still haven’t seen him. They say he’s really handsome, but… d’you think that’s a lie?”
“Must be,” he deadpanned.
—
And so, the game continued.
Damian sighed dramatically, and Shirley’s face crumpled with disappointment.
“What am I supposed to do? We have to have an engagement ceremony… and we have to kiss!”
“Hmm. That is a problem.” Damian tapped his chin, feigning deep concern.
“What if… we practice first?” Shirley brightened suddenly. “That way, even if he’s ugly, I can just close my eyes and get it over with!”
“Practice?”
“Yeah!”
“But… how?”
Damian pointed at himself.
Shirley blinked. “With… with you?”
“It’s just a kiss,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Wouldn’t you rather practice with me than some ugly fiancé?”
“Well…”
She hesitated—for exactly three seconds—before nodding.
“Okay! How do we do it?”
“First—”
Thud.
With a gentle push, Shirley found herself flat on her back in the grass, staring up at Damian—no, “Deborah”—looming over her.
“Huh?”
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed and utterly clueless.
“Deba…?”
Damian braced his hands on either side of her head, studying her expression.
Too cute.
Her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks pink, her green eyes shimmering with a mix of confusion and trust.
“Like this,” he murmured—and closed the distance.
For a moment, it felt like all the blood in his body rushed to his face.
“Deba, your face is red.”
“It’s because the blood rushed to my face.”
His blunt reply made Shirley nod sagely. Ah, that makes sense.
“Don’t move. We’re practicing.”
“O-Okay…”
Shirley squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body tense. Slowly, Damian leaned down—
Mwah.
Their lips brushed, feather-light. A breeze swept through the garden, carrying the scent of roses as it wrapped around them.
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