Chapter 09
Irene’s uncovered face, free from any fabric, was unexpectedly clear and neat. Her delicate features, though often hidden by her cold expression, had a hint of charm if observed closely.
Come to think of it, Irene didn’t resemble any member of her family—not her half-siblings and not even Baron Rios himself.
A black sheep, perhaps (means someone who is different from the others in their group or family, often in a way that makes them stand out or feel out of place).
Divoa’s eyes gleamed with amusement as if he’d stumbled upon an interesting discovery.
“Baron Rios’s illegitimate child, huh?” He mused silently, a faint smile lingering (meaning that the person was deep in thought, reflecting quietly to themselves, and a small, subtle smile remained on their face).
Just then, a maid entered the room, pushing a tray. Breaking from his thoughts, Divoa quickly donned his usual graceful smile.
“Let me take that,” he offered.
Leticia, however, stepped forward, waving the maid aside. She began setting the tea with practiced elegance, clearly having rehearsed the motions countless times. She handed a teacup to Divoa with a poised smile.
But then—clang.
The faint sound made Irene’s eyes widen slightly, though no one else seemed to notice. It wasn’t until later that she realized the noise had come from Leticia’s teacup, which she had pushed a bit too carelessly.
By then, it was too late. Tea splashed onto Divoa’s hand.
“Oh my!”
The smile vanished instantly from Leticia’s face.
Irene watched her, intrigued. It was unusual to see Leticia flustered—nervous, even.
“Your Grace!”
Javier, who had been standing like a shadow in the corner, stepped forward, his expression sharp.
“Are you all right?”
A tense silence fell over the room. Everyone—Baron Rios, his wife, Lucas, and Leticia—looked pale, their eyes darting toward Divoa, gauging his reaction.
Divoa didn’t let his smile falter. Slowly, he reached into his pocket. The baron froze, his face filled with dread as if Divoa might pull out a sword to exact punishment.
Instead, Divoa produced a blue handkerchief, wiping his hand leisurely.
No one dared to break the silence.
Finally, all eyes turned to the baron, as if urging him to speak. Reluctantly, he cleared his throat.
“Y-Your Grace…”
Divoa raised an eyebrow in response, the simple gesture enough to create a suffocating weight in the room.
The baron swallowed hard. Perhaps they had grown too comfortable with Divoa’s amiable demeanor, forgetting that he held immense power—the kind that could decide their fate in an instant.
Just as despair crept across the baron’s face, Divoa lifted his teacup, his movements poised and deliberate. The room’s collective gaze followed his every action.
Divoa sipped the tea, then directed a soft smile toward Leticia.
“The aroma is delightful.”
Leticia’s expression brightened immediately, the icy tension melting away.
“Th-thank you, Your Grace,” she stammered.
Baron Rios exhaled in relief, bowing deeply.
“Your Grace.”
Javier began to speak, but Divoa raised a hand, silencing him. Javier stepped back obediently.
Leticia murmured an apology, her voice tinged with sorrow. Irene recognized that look—it was the same expression Leticia wore when she broke one of the baron’s prized foreign ceramics.
But as soon as Leticia left the study that day, she had chirped, “Eva, give me a snack!” and skipped off to the kitchen.
Divoa, ever magnanimous, shook his head gently.
“Miss Rios merely let her feelings overflow—how could that require an apology? Besides, my hands were cold. Thanks to you, they’re warm now.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Leticia said, her voice trembling with gratitude. Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled.
Compared to the men of Therapia, Divoa was worlds apart. Had they been in his position, they would have mocked her clumsiness loudly.
But Divoa? He handled the situation with grace, leaving Leticia starry-eyed. She clasped her trembling hands together, utterly captivated.
He’s incredible, she thought, unable to look away. Even a fleeting romance with him—or just one night—would be enough.
Irene, observing Leticia’s dreamy gaze, glanced at Divoa. He remained calm, his serene smile betraying nothing.
Divoa had a way of softening the atmosphere, a skill Irene lacked entirely. If anything, she was better at chilling the mood.
Leticia, still flushed, slid a teacup toward Irene.
“Sister, here.”
Irene hesitated, eyeing the teacup as if it might be poisoned. Divoa , sipping his tea once more, shot her a subtle glance and smirked softly at her reaction.
Unaware of his amusement, Irene continued staring at the cup, her gloved hands clenched tightly.
Receiving her own portion of tea was rare—almost unheard of. For most of her life, she had learned to go without, often punished for taking what wasn’t hers.
Even at the academy, she had been stunned to realize she could choose as much food as she wanted in the dining hall. It had taken her a while to join the scramble for steak after witnessing others devour it in seconds.
Leticia’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Of course, Your Grace must drink much finer tea every day.”
“No tea, no matter how expensive, could match the care you put into this. It tastes far more fragrant to me,” Divoa replied with a faint smile.
Leticia blushed again, bowing her head. The baroness patted her hand approvingly.
Meanwhile, Lucas, fiddling nervously with his teacup, spoke up to shift the spotlight back to himself.
“Your Grace, I’ve heard tales of your valor. Every citizen knows how you defend the North region on the frontlines. It would be an honor to serve in your land, fighting for the kingdom.”
“You just mentioned running a business, did you not?” Divoa’s calm demeanor contrasted with Lucas’s flustered eagerness, making the latter seem even more desperate.
“Business can wait. Serving as a soldier for the kingdom would be far more fulfilling,” Lucas said, his voice filled with forced determination.
Divoa responded with only a faint nod, unimpressed. He’d seen many like Lucas—people who claimed devotion to duty but lacked true conviction.
Turning his attention to Irene, who sat awkwardly in silence, Divoa spoke gently.
“I’ve heard the Royal Academy is still steeped in outdated customs. Excelling as a top student there must have been no small feat. It’s truly remarkable.”
Irene didn’t know how to respond. She still couldn’t fathom why she was even here.
Divoa was everything she wasn’t—like the sun, drawing everyone’s attention, while she was a ghost, invisible and forgotten.
The sun and a ghost—nothing could be more mismatched.
Baroness Rios’s sharp voice cut through Irene’s thoughts.
“His Grace has asked you a question.”
“It’s fine,” Divoa interrupted smoothly. “I suppose Miss Irene doesn’t think much of me, seeing as she declined my offer to be my physician so readily.”
“What?” Baron Rios frowned, surprised.
“Oh, dear,” Divoa said lightly, feigning regret. “I take it she hasn’t told you.”
“Her, a physician?” Baron Rios’s voice dripped with disbelief. “That’s absurd. Irene doesn’t have the skills for such a role.”
“The person who graduated at the top of the Royal Academy’s medical program doesn’t have the skills?” Divoa countered with a small, amused smile.
Baron Rios fell silent, stunned. His family looked equally baffled, unable to reconcile the Irene they ignored with the brilliant graduate Divoa described.
“When did this happen?” the baron asked hesitantly.
