To My Gentle Dictator – Chapter 031

It was a picture-perfect scene—at least on the surface.

The restaurant was a two-story building that, even at a glance, looked quite formal.

Unlike government-run establishments, the interior decor and atmosphere were exquisite, and the fact that not just anyone could dine here made it all the more exclusive.
They were led to a terrace table with a clear view of Nebroski’s landmarks: the ballet theater and the museum.

While Ulrich took care of the ordering, Sasha had to summon every ounce of strength not to be overwhelmed by the stares of others.

‘It’s ridiculous to assume everyone recognizes me. They’re probably just looking at Ulrich.’

And of course, they were. It was obvious that no one could look away from Ulrich.
Even the waitress taking their order seemed so dazzled that it was doubtful whether she was writing anything down correctly.
Women at nearby tables were glancing over at him with slack jaws, not even trying to hide it.

Ulrich, on the other hand, seemed entirely oblivious to everyone around them.

His cool blue gaze had been fixed solely on Sasha for a while now—and the same was true of Kiril.

Ironically, Sasha didn’t even notice the two men’s unwavering attention on her.

Her mind was spinning in sync with the urgent tempo of Vivaldi’s Summer, third movement, flowing from inside the restaurant.

‘Will Kiril be okay in a place like this? I hope he doesn’t act rude again just because he’s nervous. Am I acting natural enough? That person at that table looks like a foreigner—maybe from the embassy? Or a foreign journalist? They’ve been glancing over since earlier. Did they recognize me? Even if they did, so what? More importantly, what will Ulrich think of my table manners? I’ve probably gotten rusty. I might’ve been fine back at the townhouse, but this is a public place with lots of eyes…’

It was a curious phenomenon.

Everything was going well.
Ulrich had clearly planned this date in advance—probably as a makeup for the one they missed before.
And the fact that he’d even invited Kiril meant he’d forgiven her to some degree.
Even the meeting with Kryuchkov had ended smoothly.

So she should’ve been happy.
And in truth, Sasha was very happy.

But the more her relief and joy swelled, the more her anxiety and tension crept in.
She worried she might make another mistake—or that something unpredictable might ruin this good moment all over again.

“You better be careful, sis.”

As soon as the dawdling waitress finally left, Kiril tossed the comment out bluntly.

Sasha turned to him, confused.

“Huh? Careful of what?”

“Of the Director, obviously. That waitress was practically drooling over him. You better watch out if you don’t wanna lose your boyfriend to someone else.”

Kiril muttered the line with a crooked grin, his tone making it hard to tell if he was joking or not, and grabbed a piece of bread from the basket.

It wasn’t the dark, hard rye bread they’d eaten to death over the past three years—this was soft, white bread with plenty of butter.

“Stop saying weird stuff. You’re too small to be talking like that.”

Sasha scolded him with a voice that pretended to be cheerful, her gaze slipping from the breadbasket.

After all, Kiril had no way of knowing the truth: that there was nothing to be taken from her in the first place.

‘He must just be nervous.’

From Sasha’s perspective, Kiril was clearly tense, even if he pretended not to be.
It was obvious that being in a place like this—a place he hadn’t been to since he was very young—made him feel awkward and out of place.
That must’ve been why he was blurting out whatever came to mind…

“Who’re you calling small? I’m taller than you now.”

Kiril puffed up his cheeks with bread and glared at her with mock fury.

Sasha was at a loss for words.

Even before it had just been the two of them, Kiril had been more or less like a child she had raised herself.

By the time Kiril was old enough to desperately need their parents’ attention, the family was already falling apart. With everyone focused solely on treating the eldest son’s illness, everything else was forgotten—and caring for Kiril had fallen entirely to Sasha.

Back then, Kiril had been truly adorable.

He loved his sister so much that he constantly clung to her, to the point that people around them found it annoying.

But now…

“The one who should be careful is someone else.”

Ulrich cut in with a smile, placing his palm lightly on Sasha’s knee. The motion was smooth and effortless, as natural as water.

“Kiril must not realize how beautiful his sister is, since he’s her brother.”

“My sister? That’s just the Director seeing through rose-tinted glasses—”

“Shura was very popular even as a child. During the hockey season, the cadets would secretly duel for a chance to sit beside her.”

It was a story neither Kiril nor Sasha had heard before.

As far as she remembered, the ice rink always brought chaos during game season—but she found it hard to believe that she had been that popular.

‘Did he make that up just to take my side? After all, we’re pretending to be a couple right now…’

“Come on, Yuri. They were probably just betting on the match and got into a fight. It wasn’t because of me.”

She replied playfully, trying to ignore the feel of Ulrich’s hand resting on her knee.

‘We’re a couple. That’s our act. I can’t let Kiril suspect anything.’

This kind of skinship was natural between lovers.

They’d already held hands multiple times, he’d kissed her on the cheek, and earlier she’d nearly been pulled into an embrace—so a hand on the knee wasn’t a big deal.

Ulrich wasn’t doing it just because he wanted to.

If Kiril started questioning their relationship, the one who’d be in trouble was Sasha.

Ulrich was playing his part solely for her sake.

‘I have to act properly.’

Rather than guilt over deceiving her brother, Sasha’s mind was filled with one thought: she couldn’t risk making things harder for Ulrich.

Contract or not, Ulrich was someone she was genuinely grateful to. Just look at how different Kiril was now…

Thankfully, Ulrich soon lifted his hand from her knee and pulled out a cigarette.

Sasha quietly let out a breath of relief.

“…Guess all those guys must’ve had bad eyesight.”

Kiril, who’d been staring at her knee, muttered gruffly.

Then he lowered his gaze and focused on devouring the bread from the basket.

Before long, the signature dishes and drinks began to arrive.

Seafood salad, veal saltimbocca with prosciutto, lemon cream pasta, and spinach frittata were all served one after another.

Just as Kiril finished off the breadbasket and began inspecting the plates, he blurted something out of nowhere again.

“You don’t like eggs.”

Sasha turned to him, startled.

What kind of sudden remark was that?

Ulrich quietly ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and looked at Kiril, a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes.

“Shura doesn’t like eggs?”

“Yeah. She never touches them. You didn’t know?”

Kiril replied casually, completely unfazed by Sasha’s startled expression.

“Is that so…? I’m not sure since when Kiril thinks that’s the case, but the Shura I knew used to love omelets for breakfast when she was little.”

Ulrich turned to Sasha for confirmation, his tone calm and curious.

Kiril, too, stared at her with a ‘that can’t be right’ expression.

‘What is this even…’

Sasha’s mind thudded with confusion as she faced the unexpected dilemma.

Ulrich’s statement wasn’t exactly false—but she couldn’t say Kiril was wrong, either.

Back when the siblings lived together in that matchbox apartment, eggs had been a luxury.

And it wasn’t just about price. Even if they scraped together money and lined up at the market at the crack of dawn, they often went home empty-handed.

The black market didn’t require lines, but there was no guarantee those eggs were even real.