To My Gentle Dictator – Chapter 035

The dress, wrapped in a satin-ribboned box, was lilac.

The fact that it so closely resembled the bride’s eye color bothered her a little—but considering it was a piece from a Francian fashion house, nearly impossible to obtain within the country, that detail was easy enough to overlook.

Lyudmila ran her fingers over the skirt’s dreamlike, silky hem.

The design wasn’t overly ornate or too plain—despite the astronomical price tag, it was tastefully balanced.
A perfectly refined piece, selected with consideration for both the wearer’s status and image.

From behind her came a strained voice, gasping like it was choking on air.

“It… it really suits you. I heard even in the home country it’s hard to get dresses from that brand…”

“And how would you know that, Lieutenant Valentina?”

Lyudmila turned with a soft smile as she asked.

Lieutenant Valentina, who was quite literally on the verge of collapse, blanched like she might faint right there.

“I-I just…”

“Oh my, no need to panic. I was only teasing.”

“Ah… haha… yes…”

“So enough with the idle chatter. Finish your meal.”

Though Lyudmila’s smile was fresh and gentle, her gaze was icily sharp.

Valentina stared grimly at the table.

Either Lyudmila was in a particularly foul mood today, or she’d been served twice the usual portion.

She wasn’t even halfway through and already felt like her stomach would burst.

Sure, it might seem ridiculous to complain about being served a lavish meal for free while half the country starved—but being forced to consume obscene amounts of food under Lyudmila’s watchful gaze every day wasn’t luxury.
It was closer to dietary torture.

Eating was agony, and watching her own body grow puffier by the day was just as painful.

But the worst part—the truly unbearable part—was Lyudmila herself, sitting there with a radiant smile, watching her eat with something disturbingly close to satisfaction.

As though she were somehow pleased by the sight of someone else stuffing themselves sick.

‘I never imagined she’d be this kind of person.’

She looked so delicate, so angelic. The people called her the Saint of the Workers.

Valentina had never guessed such a twisted side could be hiding beneath that face.

The pride she’d once felt when she was first assigned to serve Lyudmila had long since rotted into disappointment and nausea.

If she could have quit, she would have.

But in Velus, displeasing the General Secretary’s only daughter wasn’t just career suicide—it was a death sentence.

‘I never should’ve dated her brother.’

Valentina regretted ever getting involved with General Vasily Proverka.

She had known she fit his type and had approached him intentionally.
After all, every woman who’d dated Vasily had walked away with a handsome reward.

Though the relationship lasted only two months, it earned her a fast promotion.

She’d also received an apartment large enough to live in with her parents, and a dacha.

At the time, she’d thought she was lucky.

That is—until she was appointed to serve Lyudmila.

In the beginning, when the “food torture” had just started, she’d assumed Lyudmila was jealous—holding a grudge because she had dated her brother.

But as time passed, Valentina realized that wasn’t it at all.

This wasn’t about her past with Vasily.

There was something deeper—and far more twisted—lurking behind Lyudmila’s bizarre behavior.

While Valentina forced down the remaining food, Lyudmila picked up the dress and stepped in front of the mirror.

It was exquisite. The mermaid cut with one exposed shoulder fit her slender, model-like frame to perfection.

‘I like it, Yuri. It’s exactly my taste—as expected from something you picked out…’

But no matter how expensive the dress, it was still just a bridesmaid dress.

Less glamorous than a last-minute wedding gown sewn from linen scraps.

Lyudmila’s gaze drifted to the front page of the Pravda daily spread out on a nearby table.

There was a photo of Sasha.

It was a wartime photo, taken while she’d been volunteering at a military hospital during the Great War.
Underneath, once mocked as overly staged, the caption now lavished her with praise:
“With eyes as mysterious as Snegurochka’s…” and so on.

‘That bitch.’

A murderous glint flashed through Lyudmila’s delicate green eyes.

Ever since the announcement of Ulrich Kastrov’s engagement to Sasha, the state media had done a complete about-face, devoting themselves to glorifying Sasha.

Not long ago, the papers had painted her as a wicked Baba Yaga—now they were tripping over themselves to praise her beauty, portraying her as a woman who, led by fateful love, had risen to meet the moment.

The ideal Velus woman: progressive, self-sacrificing, patient, and pure.

If even the national media was like this, the foreign press must be worse.

‘Disgustingly childish.’

Not that it mattered.

Compared to the titles Lyudmila held, Sasha had nothing.
In Velus, Lyudmila was the people’s saint, the true princess of the new age.

And that wasn’t just propaganda powered by her father’s influence.

She had been laying the foundation for a new era since childhood, cultivating her image of gentle nobility.

Few would dare question her saintly reputation.

…Except, of course, for the likes of poor Lieutenant Valentina, still chewing at the table.

‘Do they know how hard I’ve worked?’

How much she had endured, how carefully she’d shaped herself into the perfect partner for that man.

And now, some useless leftover of a fallen bloodline had the audacity to insert herself.

Worse yet—she was the bridesmaid to that wretch.

It made her grind her teeth, but she couldn’t disobey her father.

Just like Vasily, who no doubt also felt sick about this marriage, but had remained obedient.

‘That thing will be discarded the moment she’s no longer useful.’

Lyudmila was certain she knew Ulrich better than anyone—even Kryuchkov.

She had recognized the void in him, that eerily beautiful emptiness, long ago. And she was sure he knew that she understood it.

She’d lost composure when she first heard of the engagement and let herself fall apart in front of her family—but she had recovered quickly.

Because she knew Ulrich didn’t marry for childish things like love.

This was a calculated, strategic move.

‘And that’s what I love about you, Yuri. It suits you. Though I do get a little irritated thinking about that wretch getting the wrong idea.’

To Lyudmila, her bond with Ulrich was a matter of reason.

A logical, optimal arrangement. Together, they would rule over the ignorant masses—a flawless partnership.

She had known it the moment she first saw him.

That hauntingly beautiful boy—she had known he was the one who would lead the new world by her side.

So what if he’d wandered briefly down a side road?

She could wait.

Because in the end, the one standing next to Ulrich would be her.

Not some brainless ornament of a fallen princess.

‘Enjoy it while it lasts, little maggot princess.’

Lyudmila lifted Sasha’s photo to eye level and smiled coldly.

The laughter that escaped her sounded almost like a sob, and it made Valentina flinch and glance her way.

‘When he finally tosses you aside, I’ll be the one to pick you up.’

Oh, how she looked forward to it.

With a benevolent smile on her face, Lyudmila calmly tore Sasha’s photo to shreds.

* * *

Sasha stared into the studio mirror, feeling a flicker of unease.

A lace top and underbodice threaded with what looked like thousands of tiny pearls, paired with a silk skirt that billowed like a tulip bud—voluminous, majestic, and trailing into a long, flowing train.

Just the pearls decorating the bodice must have numbered in the thousands.
But they were so intricately woven into the elegant lace pattern that, rather than looking excessive or gaudy, the overall impression was one of refined, breathtaking grace.

It was a dress that seemed to bring a fairytale to life—an exquisite balance of opulence and elegance, sweetness and nobility.
It was the kind of wedding dress every girl might dream of once in her life.

And yet, standing there in that very dream, Sasha couldn’t help but voice her doubt.

“…Is this really the dress I picked?”

The one she’d originally chosen had a similar silhouette, but it had been far more understated, simpler in style.

This dress, on the other hand, was one she had never even seen during the initial fittings.
It was an entirely different design.

But Madame Sonya only gave a dismissive snort, as if the question were ridiculous.

“Of course it’s the dress you picked. Just the same design—with a few minor changes to the fabric and embellishments. The groom insisted on only the very best for his bride.”

“…Sorry, what?”

“Our bride is the luckiest I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. Now, now, no time to waste—we still need to finish your makeup. This way, please.”

There really wasn’t any time to argue.

Pushed along by Madame Sonya’s brisk insistence, Sasha was ushered through hair and makeup without protest.

The Francian cosmetics used—nearly impossible to get hold of in this country—were, like the dress and everything else, provided by the groom’s side.

The only accessory she wore was a pair of simple white pearl earrings.

But even that was more than enough.