The silence that followed Rina's outburst was thick, as though the very air inside the kitchen had frozen to listen.
She sat across from him, trembling—her golden eyes brimming with unshed tears, her chest rising and falling with the remnants of raw emotion. Her knuckles were white, clenched around the now-empty teacup. Her breath hitched quietly, and then, slowly… she grew still.
The boy said nothing.
He remained seated, calm, composed, his black-gloved hands gently cradling his cup of tea. The soft sound of liquid moving as he took a sip was the only noise between them. Steam rose in gentle curls from his cup, fragrant and warm—mint and vanilla with a hint of something darker, something bitter.
His crimson eyes watched her without pity.
Without judgment.
Just a quiet attentiveness that made her feel seen—no, exposed.
Finally, his voice broke the stillness. Smooth, steady, and almost too gentle.
"Life is not always fair, Lady Rina," he said, his words drifting across the space like falling ash. "But tell me—what will you do when you finally meet your fiancé… Jean Rocchi?"
Her eyes flinched at the name. Her breath caught.
He continued, setting his cup down with a delicate clink against the wood.
"What will you say to him? How do you imagine he looks? His nature? His soul—after everything you know about the Rocchi family?"
The name struck something inside her. She looked up at him with wide eyes—shining with defiance and pain.
"How do I imagine him?" she repeated, her voice bitter. "I imagine a cold, arrogant monster. Someone born in blood, shaped by cruelty. The kind of person who doesn't feel. Who doesn't think of others. Who sits in castles built on corpses."
The boy didn't blink.
Rina leaned forward, her voice rising.
"I think he's a coward hiding behind his mother's name. A spoiled, violent heir who's probably never lifted a finger to earn anything in his life."
The boy gave no reaction.
"And you want to know the truth?" she snapped. "I don't care how handsome he is. I don't care how powerful. I will never love him. Ever."
Her words sliced through the air like knives.
Still… he didn't flinch.
Rina's hands trembled again, gripping her teacup. Her voice broke.
"I love someone else," she whispered. "But it doesn't matter. They don't care. They want to sell me off like some ornament—to a name. A name I hate."
Her lips twisted.
"Jean Rocchi," she spat, almost hissing. "I hate that name. I hate him. I wish he'd die in some war before the wedding."
The boy stirred only slightly—lifting the teacup to his lips once more and sipping with practiced ease. His eyes didn't leave her. There was no flicker of anger, no hint of insult. Only… silence. Measured. Calm. Unbreakable.
His small smile remained, warm and unfazed. It was the kind of smile that could calm a storm—or hide one.
Rina didn't notice.
She was too far gone.
"I swear," she growled, "if he turns out to be the smug, heartless, ego-filled bastard I think he is—I'll make his life hell. I'll curse his name every day. I'll run away. I'll—"
"Would you really?" the boy interrupted quietly.
His voice wasn't mocking. It wasn't sarcastic. If anything, it was… curious. Honest.
Rina stopped, her breath shaky, and looked at him. For a moment, the rage drained from her face. The fire in her eyes flickered.
The boy leaned back just a little, resting one elbow on the table.
"You seem strong," he said softly. "But I wonder—will you still say all these things to his face?"
There was a pause.
She looked down at her hands.
"…I don't know," she admitted.
And for the first time, her voice was small.
The boy studied her for a moment longer, then stood from his chair.
He moved slowly, silently, like a shadow born of elegance and moonlight. The black of his coat whispered as he passed the counter, his boots clicking softly against the tiled floor.
He carried their empty cups to the sink and began rinsing them with the same calm he'd shown all night.
Rina sat still, watching his back.
There was something hauntingly gentle in the way he moved. Not lazy—graceful. Almost… royal.
The scent of his cologne still lingered in the air—clean, refreshing, like crushed mint leaves and night-blooming jasmine with the faintest edge of something dark beneath it. Like a storm that hadn't arrived yet.
She exhaled quietly.
"…Thank you," she murmured.
He glanced over his shoulder.
"For what?"
"For listening."
He smiled again—that soft, unchanging smile—and turned back to the sink.
When he finished, he dried his hands, poured one last cup of tea, and brought it to her without a word.
She accepted it without thinking.
And for a long while, they simply sat again.
No more rage. No more tears.
Only quiet.
And that strange sense of comfort that came not from answers or solutions—but from presence.
From being seen by someone who didn't look away.
...........
Heat: What do you think of the story's development so far? If you like it, please give me a power stone. Thank you for reading.
I will continue to correct and edit the stored chapters. Okay, although it is painful, I can use artificial intelligence, but I have a bad experience with it because for some reason it turns everything into a harem, and this is disgusting to me.
#No_harem 🙂