To My Gentle Dictator – Chapter 019

Colorful macarons, lemon meringue tarts, marshmallows and butter cookies for dipping into chocolate fondue.

And most importantly—mille-feuille. Several kinds of mille-feuille.

Among them was one that looked exactly like the pastry she had last shared with Ulrich three years ago. Others were different, but that one stood out unmistakably.

Ulrich’s gaze softened as he looked at Sasha, who sat frozen in place.

“I hesitated for a bit. I wasn’t sure if you still liked it.”

“I—I do. I still like it…”

Even if she were in a position to be picky, Sasha still would have liked mille-feuille.

Just as she didn’t resent Ulrich for what had happened that day, she didn’t resent the pastry either.

“That’s a relief. The café we went to back then closed down, so I spent quite some time looking for a place that made something similar.”

“Oh…”

Sasha stared blankly at Ulrich’s hand as he placed a spoon in hers, just like he had done that day.

His hands didn’t look like a soldier’s. They were long, well-maintained—like a pianist’s.

At some point, she had developed a fear of men’s hands. No matter whose they were, the moment large, knobby fingers reached toward her, her breath would seize in her throat.

And there had been far too many reasons for that fear to take root.

Ever since her brother’s physician had settled in the palace, up until now.

But Ulrich’s hands had never frightened her. Not even once. That, in itself, was strange.

“Go ahead, don’t worry about any bets today. Just eat.”

As if bewitched by his words from the past, Sasha reached first for the mille-feuille that looked exactly like the one from that day.

She carefully moved the spoon, trying not to collapse the delicate pastry layers beneath the generous heap of chestnut cream.

It reminded her of the small bet they had made back then—if she managed to eat it without completely breaking the layers, he would grant her a wish.

But Sasha knew that wasn’t the reason Ulrich was treating her so well now.

The sweet, rich, foreign flavors melted on her tongue. It had been so long since she had tasted something like this.

As Sasha ate her mille-feuille, she kept stealing glances at Ulrich.

Just like back then, he simply sipped his tea and smoked his cigarette without touching the desserts.

“Um… Ulrich.”

She called out cautiously.

He tilted his head slightly, as if wondering what was on her mind.

His expression was affectionate yet languid.

“…Why are you being so kind to me?”

The question slipped out before she could stop herself.

Maybe the sudden intake of sugar had given her an odd burst of courage.

“Hmm. I’m not sure myself.”

It was the kind of question that could have easily caught someone off guard, yet Ulrich answered calmly, as if he had been expecting it.

“Back in Latunia, there was a famous dessert café right in front of the officers’ quarters. Their most popular item was mille-feuille.”

“……”

“Married men and those with lovers were frequent customers. But me? I avoided that place. I would take the long way around just to avoid passing by. Would you believe that?”

“Why would you do that…?”

“I don’t know. I just always felt like I owed you something, Shura.”

Ulrich’s eyes weren’t a simple shade of blue.

They looked as if they were made of countless blue gemstones, shimmering together—like the rippling surface of a sunlit lake.

“Ulrich, you don’t owe me anything.”

Sasha spoke sincerely.

She had never imagined that she would one day have a conversation like this with him—about that day.

Yet the words came naturally, as if pulled by some instinctive force.

“I didn’t understand it back then, but now I do. It was bound to happen sooner or later… So even if you had deliberately used me, I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“Really? Why not?”

“That’s…”

Sasha trailed off hesitantly, lowering her gaze to her teacup.

Her lilac-colored eyes, tinged with the rosy hues of twilight, looked like crushed flower petals.

“I don’t know. It’s just… Back then, you were the only one who truly listened to me.”

A brief, peculiar silence passed between them.

When she finally gathered the courage to lift her eyes, she found Ulrich staring at her.

Then, he smiled.

A mysterious, almost mischievous smile.

The story he had told her about the dessert café had been true.

But there had been another reason he had avoided that place back then.

Of course, Sasha had no way of knowing that.

“What do you want to do from now on?”

“…I don’t know.”

She answered honestly.

She had never truly thought about the future.

For the past three years, her only concern had been surviving.

Just enduring.

Protecting Kiril had been more than enough to consume her every thought.

Even if she had wanted to do something, she hadn’t been in a position to.

Even dreaming had been a luxury forbidden to her.

“All I really want is… for Kiril to grow up safely.”

“Kiril is currently under secure protection by the Security Bureau.”

“What…?”

“It was never a matter for the regular police to handle in the first place. I found it strange that he was kept in their holding cells for so long.”

Ulrich spoke in a low voice, pulling out a fresh cigarette and lighting it. Then, glancing at Sasha—who looked like a startled rabbit—he raised an eyebrow playfully.

“What should we do, Shura? Should I release him right away?”

“K-Kiril…?”

Sasha stammered, momentarily breaking down like a machine overloaded with conflicting commands.

What did this even mean? Was this truly okay?

Her mind was a whirlwind of questions, completely scrambled by the unexpected news.

“B-but… is that really alright? I mean, my brother was arrested for—”

“The Supreme Commander isn’t the type to be overly concerned about his youngest son getting roughed up in a fight with boys his own age.”

It was true.

Kryuchkov was the kind of man who would be angrier at his son for losing the fight than for getting into it in the first place.

Of course, he would punish the offender, but never out of fatherly concern.

Besides, the boy Kiril had attacked—Kryuchkov’s youngest son—was the illegitimate child of one of his mistresses.

One of the many women he discarded regularly had ended up bearing a son.

A child with an ambiguous resemblance to both parents, neither fully legitimate nor truly recognized.

Kryuchkov had simply dumped the responsibility of dealing with Kiril’s case onto his eldest son before shipping his youngest off to a military academy.

That had given Vasily a convenient excuse to play with Kiril for a while.

But now, the Director of the NSS wasn’t Vasily. It was Ulrich.

“Then… even so, you—”

“Are you worried about me now?” Ulrich interrupted smoothly. “Are you afraid that helping you will put me in someone’s bad graces?”

The teasing question made Sasha’s face turn red.

Kiril finally had a chance to be freed, yet here she was, worrying about someone else.

It felt strange—even ridiculous—but she couldn’t help it.

She had no idea what kind of relationship Ulrich had with Kryuchkov or how much influence he held within the regime.

She had only assumed he was an important figure within the Party.

But in times like these, anyone could become the next target for a purge.

The brutal execution of the first Supreme Commander, Lvov, and his closest allies had proven that.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s not my place… I just—”

Ulrich watched her babbling apology and barely held back a laugh.

A mouse worrying about a cat—how absurd.

Still, he kept his expression warm as he smoothly shifted the conversation forward.

“I never thought you were overstepping, Shura. But if you’re that worried about me, why don’t you help me?”

Something in his gentle tone gave Sasha a sense of relief.

More than that, she felt… glad.

The idea that she could actually do something for him—that she could repay even a fraction of his kindness—filled her with an unfamiliar joy.

“How can I help you?”

She asked with quiet determination, her eyes shining with resolve.

Whatever he wanted, she would give.

For someone who had done so much for her, there was nothing she wouldn’t offer.

“Marry me.”

For a moment, Sasha thought she had misheard him.

Just as she was about to ask What?, Ulrich reached out, gently enclosing her hand in his.

Then, he repeated, ever so softly—

“Marry me, Shura.”

 

 

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