To My Gentle Dictator – Chapter 022

It was unfortunate, but once again, the fact that the opponent was Ulrich had completely thrown the game off its tracks.

“Brother, this is just a joke, right? You and Ulrich are messing with me, aren’t you? If you admit it now, I’ll forgive you.”

“When has that bastard ever played a prank just to tease you?”

Vasily exhaled smoke indifferently, his tone flat.

His sister’s incessant whining was starting to get on his nerves, but her reaction was natural.

She had been obsessed with Ulrich for so long that it would have been strange if she hadn’t lost her mind over this.

Meanwhile, Vasily himself felt utterly detached.

When someone is shocked beyond belief, they either become eerily calm or lose their grip on reality. Right now, Vasily was the former.

When did this start?

He thought back to the day Ulrich had staged his fake arrest.

He had sensed, even then, that Ulrich was plotting something—but never, never in his wildest imagination had he thought it would be this.

Because the Ulrich he knew was a man devoid of anything remotely resembling human emotion.

On the surface, he was convincing. But underneath? An abyss. A hollow shell of a man.

That was why Vasily hadn’t expected this.

To Ulrich, even relationships were just tools.

A marriage for calculated gain was one thing—but out of all the available women with far better prospects, why Sasha?

“This is insane! Why the hell is Ulrich marrying her?!”

“How the fuck should I know? Maybe he got curious about what a royal cunt tastes like!”

Vasily’s voice exploded, and Lyudmila’s eyes widened.

For a moment, her delicate lips trembled, then curled into a sneer.

“Oh? What’s this, brother? Don’t tell me you haven’t had a taste yourself?”

At that moment, the door swung open, and Kryuchkov walked in.

Vasily immediately got up from his chair, while Lyudmila scampered toward their father.

“Father, look at this! What in the world—”

“Fix your face, Mila. Surely, you didn’t welcome our guests looking like this?”

Kryuchkov’s tone was flat, unimpressed.

Lyudmila hastily wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and pressed on.

“Father, you said you were going to marry me off to Ulrich! You told me to wait just a little longer—”

“I said I would approve if both of you agreed. When did I ever say I would force the marriage upon him? Do you take your father for a mere matchmaker?”

Clicking his tongue in disapproval, Kryuchkov strode to his desk and pulled open a drawer.

Tears welled in Lyudmila’s eyes as she stared at her father, her pale lips quivering.

“Aren’t you even the slightest bit bothered that Ulrich is marrying her?”

“A man is free to marry the woman he wants. What’s the big deal?”

“But Ulrich isn’t just some man! And she isn’t just some woman! She was supposed to be my brother’s fiancée! And she’s a remnant of the imperial family—the very thing you despise! And now that thing is marrying one of your most cherished men instead of me! Doesn’t that disgust you?!”

“That’s right. Not even a little.”

Kryuchkov replied flatly, flipping through the papers he had retrieved from the drawer.

“Why…?”

Lyudmila’s voice wavered. Her expression was one of utter disbelief.

“How can you say that, Father…?”

Kryuchkov finally looked up from his documents, fixing his gaze on his tearful daughter.

The same green eyes he had passed down to his children now glinted with sheer disappointment.

“Because you lost.”

“…”

“Ulrich didn’t choose you. He chose her. You had everything—your father’s backing, wealth, power, the best prospects—and yet, you still lost to that girl. You should be hanging your head in shame, not throwing a childish tantrum.”

Silence fell over the room.

Vasily, his expression stony, glanced at his frozen sister before turning on his heel and walking out.

* * *

From the evening she hooked pinkies with Ulrich, everything moved at an astonishing pace.

When Sasha signed the contract Ulrich had presented, she silently vowed to be a good wife for the next two years—to not disappoint him.

The wedding was set for May, and as soon as Kiril completed his entrance exam, he would move into the dormitory and prepare for the new semester.

She wasn’t sure how Ulrich had done it, but everything concerning Kiril had been settled swiftly and seamlessly.

The wedding preparations, however, were a never-ending ordeal.

With only a short time left until the ceremony, the woman in charge—Madame Sonya—was relentless, her convictions unwavering to the point of ruthlessness.

“I can tell just by looking at your face. Design is important, yes, but what matters most is that the bride must fall in love with the dress at first sight. Otherwise, everything falls apart!”

Sasha had assumed choosing a wedding dress would be the easiest part. She had been very wrong.

After trying on eight dazzling white gowns and four two-piece ensembles, she finally sat down on a stool to catch her breath. Her head was spinning.

Does it even matter if I like it? It’s a fake wedding anyway…

Though, of course, aside from the two of them, no one knew that this marriage would last only two years.

Still, she didn’t quite understand what it meant to “fall in love at first sight” with a dress.

Truthfully, she had liked all the ones she had tried so far. But apparently, Madame Sonya didn’t think so.

Sasha would have asked for Ulrich’s opinion, but he was a busy man.

Besides, hadn’t he brought Madame Sonya precisely so she could handle everything on her own?

Madame Sonya, who had been barking crisp orders to the salon staff, turned her scrutinizing gaze on Sasha with clear dissatisfaction.

“I’ve seen that look before. I keep telling you, even the smallest detail affects the bride’s psyche. Are you sure you don’t want to cut your hair?”

“…No.”

Sasha clasped her hands in her lap and answered timidly.

Her black hair, now glossy and healthy again, cascaded down to her waist.

She had trimmed it a few days ago at the salon, along with her nails, but she hadn’t dared to cut it as short as Madame Sonya had suggested—above her shoulders.

It wasn’t that she had any deep attachment to her hair. She just preferred to keep it long.

A stubborn habit, born from a childhood memory—her brother had once told her it was pretty.

Madame Sonya clicked her tongue in disapproval as she observed Sasha.

Having worked in the wedding industry for decades, undeterred by the shifting tides of the nation, Madame Sonya cared little for a bride’s social status or background.

She had one guiding principle:

Even if she couldn’t give every bride a fairytale wedding, she would provide the best possible wedding within the given budget.

And to Madame Sonya, this small, doll-like bride was utterly ungrateful.

The wedding venue was none other than Kafka Cathedral—one of St. Petersburg’s most renowned landmarks.

The cost of the dress and jewelry alone was astronomical.

In this day and age, hardly anyone could afford such a luxurious wedding.

On top of that, there were rumors that a new marriage law was about to pass.

Soon, all couples in Velus would be required to forgo lavish ceremonies, completing their marriage with nothing more than a signature at a government office.

In other words, Sasha might very well be Madame Sonya’s final masterpiece.

And that wasn’t even the most astonishing part.

The groom was Ulrich Kastrov.

A man coveted not just by young women, but by older women—and even some men.

And here he was, pouring a fortune into this wedding.

Any other bride would be dancing with joy.

Yet this ungrateful little thing sat there, acting like a lifeless doll.

She even looked like one.

She never expressed any preferences, never voiced an opinion—until now.

‘Did they have a fight?’ Madame Sonya wondered.