My Ruin to You - Chapter 107

The count’s hospitality was extravagant.

When the healer applied mana to the wound on the back of Roseline’s head, he stomped his feet and shouted, “Don’t hold back on the mana!” He even prepared a lavish dinner as if determined to bankrupt his own household.

For Roseline, who had to endure the countess’s presence throughout, it was pure agony. The count’s son and daughter also joined the meal, and their attitudes couldn’t have been more different.

“Forgive my boldness, but our head chef’s skills are exceptional. It’s his fault I’ve grown so plump—ha ha!”

“Father’s figure is less due to the chef’s skill and more because he eats twice as much as anyone else, but the food is delicious. I do hope it suits Your Highness and the lady’s tastes.”

The count and his daughter kept the atmosphere light with cheerful smiles, while the countess and her son remained tight-lipped, speaking only when necessary. The countess maintained a polite smile, but whenever her gaze met Roseline’s, her eyes darkened with unmistakable disgust before she quickly looked away.

Being showered with both forced kindness and open malice in the count’s home was unbearably awkward. Roseline would’ve preferred the grim cave where she’d once faced the threat of being sold—at least there, she could’ve just punched the villains outright. Society’s contempt offered no such recourse; all she could do was endure.

“…….”

But this was going too far.

Roseline’s head tilted slightly after a few spoonfuls of soup. Salty. Not inedibly so, but enough to make swallowing a struggle. She drained her water glass in seconds, then discreetly rolled her eyes to gauge the table’s mood.

Valen was eating elegantly, and the count’s family showed no reaction, calmly moving their utensils. That’s when her eyes met the countess’s again—just in time to catch the woman’s smirk.

“Oh dear, it seems the soup isn’t to the lady’s taste.”

Dabbing her lips with a napkin, the countess feigned concern with a sickeningly sweet tone. All eyes turned to Roseline—Valen’s included. His gaze flicked between her barely touched soup, the empty water glass, and her stiff expression.

“As you can see, my lady, the refugees outside are starving with nothing to eat. Even if your appetite falters, perhaps you could manage a few more bites—for their sake?”

If you pity them so much, maybe stop tampering with the food.

Roseline’s fingers tightened around her spoon. The hypocrisy was suffocating. But before she could respond, Valen set down his fork with a quiet clink.

“If charity is the concern,” he said, voice smooth as steel, “we’ll have the untouched portions sent to the refugees directly. I’m sure they’d appreciate it more than performative guilt.”

The countess’s smile froze.

A beat of silence. Then the count laughed too loudly, “A splendid idea, Your Highness!” while his daughter stifled a giggle behind her napkin.

Roseline exhaled slowly. Valen hadn’t even raised his voice, yet the table’s power balance had shifted irrevocably.

She took one deliberate bite of the oversalted soup—maintaining eye contact with the countess—before pushing the bowl away with a serene smile.

“How generous of you to think of them. I’ll be sure to pass along your… concern.”

The countess’s knuckles whitened around her wineglass.

Valen’s lips quirked. Well played.

There were words on the tip of her tongue, but Roseline knew speaking them would only stir up trouble. Who am I to criticize anyone when I’m just clinging to Valen’s coattails?

“Rodelac.”

Just as Roseline was about to speak, Valen set down his utensils and turned to the count, who had long since stopped eating himself. The count had been nervously sipping water, trying to gauge the suddenly tense atmosphere. The omission of honorifics—just like when he’d failed to acknowledge Roseline earlier—made him choke mid-swallow. His face flushed crimson as he stifled a cough.

“Ghk—y-yes, Your Highness?”

“Why should the lady pity the refugees you neglected?”

Valen’s posture remained elegantly straight against the chair, but his voice was razor-edged. On the surface, it was a critique of the count’s governance, but the underlying message was clear: Rein in your wife’s loose tongue.

Dinner conversations were supposed to be light—a matter of etiquette. There was plenty to discuss about the plague and the infected, but no one dared bring it up for that very reason.

The count had his own plans. Once the meal ended, discussions about relocating the refugees would inevitably arise. By then, he’d hoped to steer the Grand Duke—softened by lavish hospitality and the presence of his beloved—toward solutions that minimized losses to his territory.

So when his wife had the audacity to scold Roseline over the refugees, his panic was palpable.

‘For heaven’s sake, woman! Why do you think His Highness ventured into that hellscape in the first place? Hmm?’
‘Of course I know! To uncover the truth behind this horrific plague and rescue his beloved!’
‘You’re hopeless, truly.’
‘Excuse me?!’
‘This is why you’ll never climb higher. The plague broke out after the lady went to the viscount’s lands. What does that tell you?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘She’s clearly involved in the plague! His Highness went there to clean up her mess. The audacity! How thick-skinned can one person be?’
‘Here we go again.’
‘Oh, here we go again? Just look at her! Does she seem capable of such atrocities?’
‘Ugh, you’re impossible. You can’t judge a book by its cover! Back in the capital, she strutted around like she owned the place, but now she can’t even meet anyone’s eyes? Guilty conscience, if you ask me. Thanks to her, my niece had to settle for becoming some old count’s second wife!’