Chapter 22
When they were children, every time Yulia played that piece, Cayente used to think she was tormenting the cello.
It was a song that seemed impossible for such small hands to play, yet Yulia had been determined to master it since then.
She’d said it was such a beautiful piece that she had to perform it perfectly.
Back then, it had sounded more like noise than music… but she had improved. Definitely.
From the cello nestled in Yulia’s arms, not once did an unpleasant squeal emerge.
As she continued to play with poise—as if this entire moment had been meticulously prepared just for her—the murmurs gradually died down, and the gazes of the nobles all turned toward her.
“Yes, I’ve heard it before.”
The Emperor, who had been wearing a pleased expression since the beginning of the performance, smiled as he continued the conversation.
“Ah, that’s right. You’ve known each other since childhood, haven’t you? There’s something quite touching about that. Watching your wife’s musical talent blossom over the years.”
“I didn’t watch it happen. We lost contact for eight years.”
“And yet, you met again?”
“We did.”
If we had never met again… you would probably be performing here today in a very different way.
Cayente knew. He knew what Yulia had to give up because of that sudden marriage. What she lost wasn’t just the title of a beloved wife.
Although he hadn’t intended it, in the end, Cayente had essentially blocked the path Yulia had been trying to walk by stepping into the world through her cello.
“A fated connection, then.”
“Yes, fate indeed.”
He hadn’t planned to pull Yulia back into his world—but here they were. Some sort of bond must exist between them. The problem was, it wasn’t a bond that brought anyone joy. It was a curse disguised as fate.
“She’s far better than the performer Duke Dilton was bragging about the other day.”
“I heard the one playing now is to become Count Clue’s wife.”
“That’s right.”
“She plays so beautifully. I think the piece was nicknamed ‘The Sun,’ wasn’t it? It really feels like sunlight is pouring down through her music.”
The performance of the future Countess of Clue. Initially, the nobles had listened with half-hearted curiosity, but as the piece went on, they began to genuinely praise Yulia’s skill.
Of course, part of those compliments likely came from a desire to curry favor with Cayente by flattering his bride-to-be… But Cayente found no joy in it. In fact, he was seething with rage.
Wasn’t it unfair? Four years ago, it should’ve been Yulia who felt like the ground had collapsed beneath her.
Had that incident gone in a more conventional direction, she wouldn’t have just given up the cello—she wouldn’t have even dared to dream of performing at this level.
“She’s always been beautiful, but now… she’s dazzling. No wonder Count Clue rushed to marry her. He must’ve feared someone else would snatch her away.”
“Count Clue made an excellent choice. Who knew she was so talented? I’m sure she’ll be a great asset to his business as well.”
Most of those sweet words weren’t just for show. No one, including Cayente, could take their eyes off Yulia as she played with unwavering grace.
For a fleeting second, he even wished he were the one held between those straight, slender legs instead of the cello.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
The Clue family had wealth in excess—so much that it was said they could burn money for firewood if they wanted.
For the woman of such a household to wear rags was a disgrace.
That’s why Cayente had spent a fortune to adorn her—and the new dress she wore today fit her as though it had always belonged to her.
The extravagant pink diamond necklace and earrings—items beyond the reach of even a duchess—looked as if they had been made solely for Yulia.
Yulia, the daughter of a humble household, now stood beside him with such undeniable beauty and cello talent that no one could say she wasn’t worthy of the position.
That truth suffocated Cayente. His chest tightened, his vision blurred. As all his senses drowned in darkness, only the vivid melody of the cello rang loudly in his ears.
What was he doing? He had practically built her the perfect stage.
“Count, are you alright? You look pale…”
Noticing Cayente’s deteriorating condition, Henry quickly approached. At that moment, the champagne glass in Cayente’s hand shattered with a sharp crack.
“Count!”
“Count Clue, are you okay?”
“Aaah!”
“Heavens! What just happened?”
Before anyone could react, blood began to drip onto the floor. A thin stream ran from Cayente’s palm down to his wrist, soaking into the pristine cuff of his shirt, staining it red.
“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
The commotion abruptly silenced the cello’s song. Yulia, who rushed to his side, looked at him with concern, her eyes wide with worry.
You’re standing there, basking in praise, glowing in the light… That’s not how this should be. Do you know whose fault it is that my once-clean hand is now soaked in blood?
“Count! Please, calm down and open your hand! There’s still glass in your palm!”
“Brother! Open your hand! You’re bleeding!”
Yulia struggled to open his clenched hand, her brow deeply furrowed. Her obvious concern only enraged Cayente further.
So that’s it. You still think this marriage has value. You still dream of being a happy bride standing beside me.
“Please open your hand—no, we need to move him somewhere else. Your Majesty, where can we take him?”
“There’s a small lounge attached to the powder room. Take him there.”
“Thank you. Count, this way.”
Henry quickly took control of the situation and escorted Cayente out of the banquet hall. Yulia naturally followed close behind, staying right beside him.
“What happened? How did you hurt your hand?”
“It seems there was an issue with the glass he was holding.”
“It suddenly shattered? How could that— Are you alright?”
The moment Cayente met Yulia’s impossibly clear and gentle eyes, his breath hitched. His unfocused gaze sharpened.
As soon as they reached the lounge, Cayente pushed the door open—and seized Yulia by the neck, crashing his lips onto hers and forcing her into the room.
“Count!”
No one was more shocked than Henry. Fearing someone might see, he quickly shut the door and stood guard outside.
“Thank you for your concern, but the Count wishes to be alone. He’ll rejoin the gathering once treatment is complete. Please excuse us.”
Inside the closed lounge, Yulia and Cayente were alone.
“Mm! Mmph!”
Yulia gasped as Cayente’s lips crushed hers. But what sent cold dread through her body wasn’t the kiss—it was the sharp sensation of something piercing her skin from the places on her neck where his injured hand gripped her.
His kiss was not tender. It was a bitter, angry storm crashing into her lips.
And yet…
Yulia did not push him away.
Though her shoulders trembled slightly from the shock, she neither screamed nor avoided him.
Her hands, which had instinctively risen to his chest, merely pressed lightly against him—as though trying to ground herself, not resist.
She couldn’t breathe. Her chest tightened, and her mind spun in confusion.
But even through that—she recognized it.
The pain in Cayente’s kiss.
The same man who had once kissed her gently beneath the music room’s dim lights was now desperately clinging to something he himself couldn’t name.
It wasn’t love.
It was possession. Obsession. A twisted ache that he couldn’t hide any longer.
When their lips finally parted, Cayente’s forehead pressed against hers, breath ragged, hand still trembling at her throat.
“Why…” he asked hoarsely, “Why do you smile in front of others like that?”
Yulia blinked. Her lips were still parted, her eyes wide in disbelief.
“I never… smiled at you like that,” he continued, his voice low and bitter. “Back then… not even once.”
His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth—the very place where her soft smile had bloomed during the performance.
“Are you angry because I smiled?”
“No. I’m furious because it wasn’t for me.”
Yulia finally found her voice.
“It was a performance,” she said quietly. “A moment I gave my all to. I smiled because I was proud, not because of anyone else.”
“Even that—” Cayente’s grip tightened, not dangerously, but enough to make her inhale sharply. “Even that pride, I wanted to be part of it.”
His bloodied hand had stained the collar of her new dress, but neither of them seemed to care.
“You gave up everything once,” he muttered. “And now… now you shine again, as if nothing happened.”
Yulia stared into his eyes, searching.
“I’m not the same girl from back then, Cayente.”
“You are,” he whispered. “That’s the problem. You are… and yet you’re not mine.”
The room fell silent, filled only with their harsh breaths.
Yulia finally stepped back, gently prying his hand from her throat.
“I was never yours to begin with.”
The words hit him like a slap. But she didn’t flinch.
“I’m not something you lost and suddenly remembered you wanted. I didn’t wait for you, Cayente. I survived without you.”
She turned to leave.
But just before her hand reached the door, she paused.
“You should get your hand treated,” she said without looking back. “If you don’t… it might leave a scar.”
And with that, she exited the room—her spine straight, her steps calm, as if his chaos had never touched her.
Cayente didn’t follow.
He stood alone in the quiet room, blood dripping from his hand onto the floor, his breath heavy, and his heart… shattering.
