My Ruin to You - Chapter 109

Swish. The knife sliced through the tense atmosphere and embedded itself in the carpet beside the chef’s head—a hair’s breadth away.

“……”

The chef couldn’t even steady his breathing. A delayed shiver ran down his stiffened spine. Had he moved his head even slightly, the knife would have pierced his skull instead of the carpet. The mere thought made his legs go weak.

“Did you cook this yourself?”

“Y-Yes, Your Highness. I-I did.”

“Come closer.”

At the command, the chef barely managed to straighten his trembling legs and stagger to Valen’s side. Valen slid Roseline’s soup bowl toward him, then jerked his chin slightly—taste it—before leaning back deeply into his chair. The chef hesitantly scooped a spoonful with the utensil handed to him by the steward, then immediately grimaced.

“This is not my cooking, Your Highness. Well—I did prepare the soup, but this isn’t the flavor I served. It’s been altered.”

He dropped heavily to his knees.

“Altered?”

“Please believe me, Your Highness! How could I ever commit such an atrocity with food meant for the Grand Duke? I swear on my name!”

Though his face was pale with fear, his voice carried desperate conviction. Valen’s icy gaze swept slowly across the dining hall—just as a maid, who had been trembling violently in the corner, collapsed to her knees.

“I-I’ve committed a capital offense, Your Highness! I-I only did as the madam ordered…!”

As the maid sobbed out her confession, the countess’s lips twitched spasmodically. The count looked at his wife as if he might faint, and their daughter clapped both hands over her mouth to stifle a scream.

“Detail the countess’s orders. Every last one.”

“S-She told me to mix two spoonfuls of salt into the young lady’s soup! I was wrong! Please forgive me, Your Highness!”

“Since I ate it, it’s now my food.”

Silence fell.

The moment the words left his lips, all warmth drained from the dining table. The terrified maid crumpled forward, weeping, while the countess turned as pale as stone. This was the first true terror she had ever known in her privileged, coddled life. She had never dreamed things would unravel like this.

Salting or spiking food with vinegar was a common prank in salons and tea parties—a petty revenge, harmless compared to the humiliation of her niece being forced to become an old count’s second wife because of that girl.

“The fault is entirely mine, Your Highness.”

The count rose stiffly from his chair and prostrated himself in supplication. His children, the steward, and the servants who had served dinner all immediately pressed themselves flat against the floor. Only the countess remained frozen—her lips parched white, her eyes darting wildly in terror. Though reason told her to move, fear had paralyzed her completely.

“What are you doing?! Beg for forgiveness at once!”

Only after the count’s red-faced shout did she jolt into motion, scrambling gracelessly to her knees—just as they touched the floor:

“Enough. If you had no intention of sincerity.”

Valen’s monotone voice turned the count’s vision black. It was the sound of the sky collapsing. The count, crawling toward Valen on his hands and knees, had veins bulging uncharacteristically on his pudgy hands.

“Y-Your Highness—!”

“Steward, go to the annex and summon my knights.”

A simple order, but its meaning was clear: this had escalated beyond personal offense into a public crime—an attempt to harm royalty. No excuses would suffice now. At best, they might keep their lives; at worst, their entire house could be eradicated.

“Please grant us mercy, Your Highness! If you spare us just this once, I swear on the Rodelac name to devote my life in loyal service to you and the Empire!”

The count sobbed as he bowed, cold sweat dripping onto the carpet. But Valen remained unmoved.

“What more mercy do you expect?”

“……”

“I’m handling this officially, without personal bias. Unless you’d prefer I didn’t.”

The implication was clear: had this been a private matter, he would have beheaded them already. It was also a warning to press no further. Roseline, who had been silently observing, interpreted it differently. Valen usually referred to her with more formality in public, but when rage overrode reason, such distinctions vanished—he might call her “you” regardless of setting.

By that measure, the current Valen was still rational. Which meant he could be reasoned with.

“…Your Highness.”

When Roseline timidly tugged his sleeve, those steel-gray eyes snapped to her at once.

“What is it? Are you unwell?”

The concern in his voice further confirmed his lucidity. Roseline glanced around the ruined dining hall, then deliberately let her brows droop pitifully.

“I’m… still hungry, Your Highness.”

An absurd complaint for the situation—but also the perfect excuse to derail his judgment. It wasn’t her place to plead for mercy or leniency. Whatever the countess’s motives, since the salted soup had reached Valen’s lips, their fate was his alone to decide.

A beat of silence. Then Valen exhaled sharply through his nose—half exasperation, half amusement.

“Then we’ll eat elsewhere.”

He stood, offering Roseline his hand. The count, still prostrate, didn’t dare lift his head until Valen’s boots passed him by—only to freeze again at the final, casually thrown command:

“You have until dawn to submit your formal apology. Make it convincing.”

The countess fainted outright.