Chapter 3: My Friend’s Divorce (3)
Esteban crossed his arms and tapped his forearm slowly with his fingers—’tok, tok.’ The steady rhythm carried a hint of irritation.
“She refused.”
The land on which that house stood was barely a handful in size.
Other than its location by the lake, it wasn’t even in a particularly good spot—far from Elgreen Village, with poorly maintained roads. There was nothing desirable about it. And yet, from the very beginning, they had offered the landowner five times its market value.
And now, the offer had grown to three times that amount. Yet, the landowner still refused to part with the house.
Whether she was truly unwilling to sell or just hoping to drive the price up even further, Esteban couldn’t say. But this long, drawn-out refusal—stretching from last summer to this year—was beginning to wear on his patience.
“She says she won’t sell no matter how much we offer.”
At Esteban’s outstretched hand, Eric—his longtime friend and the Renstein family’s attorney—placed the reply letter into his palm.
Esteban pinched the edge of the letter from Aneta Schreiber, unfolding it as if it were something dirty. Then, he read its contents.
—
To Attorney Eric Reicher,
I’ll skip the formalities.
I made my intentions clear in my previous reply. Was that not enough?
Let me state it again: I am not refusing your offer in an attempt to negotiate a higher price.
That house holds too many precious memories for me.
Just as I cannot sell my memories, I cannot sell that house.
Unless I die, I will never sell it in my lifetime. So I would appreciate it if you let this matter end here.
—Aneta Schreiber.
—
The neatly written words, the firmly pressed period at the end—they all seemed to carry the weight of Aneta Schreiber’s emotions.
Esteban frowned deeply as he stared at the letter.
Had she written this with the same displeased expression? Or had her eyes sparkled with excitement, hoping to drive the price even higher?
“She seems to be sincere. Even if we double the offer again, I don’t think she’ll accept. Maybe it’s time to give up?”
‘Give up?’
Esteban returned the letter to Eric and turned back toward the window. No matter where he stood in his lakeside estate, that house was always within sight.
“What about her husband? Does the Viscount Schreiber know his wife has been offered such a high price?”
“I wouldn’t know. That land still belongs to the Bell family, so the Viscount has no say in it.”
“Even as her husband?”
“Even as her husband. Well, I suppose if he were willing to exploit legal loopholes, he could do something—but that’s not what you want, is it? If you acquire that land through such underhanded means, it would be a stain on your beautiful lake.”
As his friend pointed out, Esteban wanted to settle this matter cleanly. He wanted to claim this breathtaking landscape for himself in a way that left no room for resentment.
But the landowner—who didn’t even seem to visit the place—was stubbornly disrupting the perfect harmony he sought.
Why was she holding on to it? Why ruin such a magnificent lakeside view for no reason?
When he first planned to build his estate here, he hadn’t expected acquiring that land to be such an ordeal.
“Who exactly is this landowner?”
“I figured you’d ask, so I did some digging in Nas City.”
Eric leaned back and began his explanation.
“She has an excellent reputation. Bright, cheerful, considerate of others. Outgoing and sociable—she even chats with the merchants at the market. Normally, a noblewoman being close with commoners would spark gossip, but she also gets along well with other noblewomen, so no one speaks ill of her.”
There was only one thing people whispered about.
A love story from her past—about her husband and his childhood sweetheart. A tale of passion and heartbreak.
But that was irrelevant to this matter, so Eric left it out.
“Young nobles say that if she weren’t married, they would have proposed to her. Older nobles say it’s a shame—they had considered her an ideal daughter-in-law. In short, there’s nothing to criticize about her.”
“Oh, and she’s apparently quite resourceful. They call her the gardener of the Schreiber estate.”
“What does resourcefulness have to do with gardening?”
“The Viscount Schreiber is incredibly handsome, but utterly incompetent. People say that if it weren’t for his wife, that beautiful flower would have withered away long ago.”
Esteban scoffed.
So, she was too strong-willed to part with the land so easily.
Did she need more money to keep her husband looking pretty?
“Just how handsome is this man?”
“He is quite good-looking.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“I have. I went to a salon to gather some information while scouting locations for my law office. Someone called out ‘Viscount Schreiber,’ so I turned around, and there he was.”
“That handsome?”
“Absolutely stunning.”
Eric nodded slightly as he described him—a sharp, chiseled jawline, piercing eyes, a strong, masculine presence.
“He looked like a sun god. His golden hair gleamed, and his eyes were a flawless, pure blue. The kind of face that makes you turn back for a second look.”
As Esteban frowned, Eric patted his arm reassuringly.
With his jet-black hair, strikingly clear emerald-green eyes, a sharp jawline, and skin so pale it seemed almost translucent—paired with blood-red lips—Esteban possessed a beauty that was more haunting than angelic. Like a demon risen from the depths of hell to enchant mortals.
But Eric, being a considerate friend, kept his words brief.
“Of course, you’re handsome too, so don’t worry.”
Annoyed, Esteban swatted Eric’s hand away.
“Who said I was worried about that? I just want to know how high the Madame Schreiber is willing to drive up the land price to keep her husband well-groomed.”
—
It had been a week since Countess Rodielsa Royson finalized her divorce and returned to being Miss Rodielsa Carbonetti.
Aneta had heard that Rodielsa had gone back to her family’s estate, the Carbonetti manor, but she had yet to visit her.
She knew she should go—act natural, exchange pleasantries. She knew that pretending not to care would only fuel more gossip. And yet, she simply didn’t feel up to it.
‘When did I become so petty?’
Rodielsa had to leave her son behind with her ex-husband. Aneta could only imagine how agonizing that must be. And yet, instead of offering comfort, she had chosen to turn away. She felt disgusted with herself.
Just as she felt disgusted by how she constantly watched her husband’s every move when he came home.
‘Had he seen Rodielsa?’
‘Was he thinking about her right now?’
‘Had he arranged a meeting with her?’
She wanted to casually mention Rodielsa’s name, just once, to see how he reacted. But she was afraid—afraid that the moment she spoke it, she would witness his emotions shift.
So Aneta pretended not to hear. Pretended not to know. And carried on with her routine as if everything was normal.
That fragile illusion shattered when her mother-in-law, Christine, casually brought up Rodielsa’s name over dinner.
“So, I heard Rodielsa got divorced and returned to her family home. You were friends with her for years—why haven’t any of you reached out to her?”
Clang—!
Aneta’s fork clattered against her plate as she flinched.
But Berner, her husband, remained composed. He calmly sliced his meat with his knife, his expression unreadable.
“Miss Carbonetti has her own family to support her. We have no reason to concern ourselves, Mother.”
“But you were friends for so long. Sometimes, a person needs the comfort of a friend more than their family.”
Christine’s gaze shifted to Aneta, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.
Aneta saw it—the pleasure Christine took in watching her squirm. But she acted as if she didn’t.
“I thought Rodielsa might not be in the mood for visitors yet. I was planning to see her once she had settled in.”
“How is she supposed to recover if no one visits her? She left her child behind—she must feel utterly alone. A friend should be there to hold her hand and console her.”
Then, Christine added, her tone deliberately sharp—
“Or do you not understand a mother’s grief because you have no children?”
“Because you have no children.”
The words pierced through Aneta like a blade.
Five years of marriage.
Not frequent, but regular intimacy.
And yet, no child.
In a noble family, failing to produce an heir was a serious issue. But even beyond that, Aneta had wanted to have a child with Berner.
Christine’s barbed words always struck where it hurt the most.
“Mother!”
Berner’s voice rang out, uncharacteristically sharp.
“You shouldn’t speak like that.”
“What? I was just saying—perhaps she doesn’t understand what it’s like to be a mother, so I was explaining it to her.”
“Aneta doesn’t need to understand. Whatever happens with Miss Carbonetti is none of our concern. Please, drop this subject already.”
