Isn’t Being A Wicked Woman Much Better? - Chapter 128

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 128
The moment a white bird caught my eye peering through the window, I rushed toward it. As soon as I opened the window, Muffin—whom I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of in ages—fluttered his wings and landed on my palm.
His owner shouldn’t be in the Capital, so how did he get here?
The letter I’d just received clearly stated he wouldn’t be able to visit for some time.
The bird chirped softly. Wrapped around his tiny ankle wasn’t a golden thread but a handkerchief. The moment I saw the writing and handwriting inside it, I urgently grabbed my robe and bolted outside.
Why did the house feel so impossibly vast today?
I’d always loved how spacious the Mansion was, like a resort, but as I ran through the Garden to meet him, I found myself wishing it were just a little smaller.
Meeting him right in front of the house shouldn’t be this difficult!
I finally reached the East Gate of the Mansion where there were no guards, clutching the handkerchief he’d sent, and darted about searching the surroundings.
He said he’d be in the nearby Forest.
But how did Isidore even get inside the Simour Private Estate?
Ah, right—spatial magic was his specialty.
Quickly convinced, I was glancing around the Forest area connected to the Town House when a hand touched my shoulder, startling me into turning around.
He really came.
My heart raced even faster the moment I saw him, perhaps from the urgency of running about.
“Isidore…!”
The instant I called his name, Isidore’s eyes widened and he whispered softly.
“It’s been a while, Deborah.”
He responded lightly and pulled out a scroll.
“It’s difficult to have a long conversation in this place.”
“…”
“I can’t face the family alone, so let me take you with me. I’ll move us somewhere quiet where we can talk.”
After explaining the situation, he immediately tore the scroll.
The magic transported us to a hilltop in the Yones District—the place we’d visited for a stroll after watching the play last time. In the quiet surroundings, only my ragged breathing echoed loudly. I’d run around the house so much that I was still catching my breath.
“You should have taken your time. I showed up without warning or arrangement, yet you pushed yourself so hard.”
“…”
I’d meant to say it was fine, but suddenly I found myself speechless, simply gazing at Isidore. In the brief time since we’d last met, he’d lost weight—his jawline had become even sharper—and the shadows beneath his eyes were darker than usual. The signs of emotional strain were evident. My initial bewilderment at his sudden appearance quickly gave way to concern.
“I thought it would take longer to come up to the Capital. You didn’t overexert yourself, did you?”
“The only remaining event was a banquet anyway. Given my position, I tactfully excused myself from the subordinates’ gathering as quickly as possible.”
He spoke as if joking, but knowing how difficult it was to cut short official schedules, I couldn’t simply accept his words at face value.
Moreover, unlike short-distance travel within the Capital, long-distance travel required passing through multiple gates, accumulating considerable physical fatigue. Isidore’s pallid complexion might well be the result of pushing himself to come to the Capital.
“…Are you alright? It seems like you haven’t been eating properly.”
“Seeing how you breathe easier just looking at my face makes me wonder if I actually haven’t been doing well these past days.”
“…”
“I feel like I can live.”
He murmured softly. It was as if he were clinging to me like a lifeline. Without thinking, I reached out and stroked his hair, and he slowly leaned his face against my shoulder, breathing deeply.
“Perhaps Father has gone to a better place.”
I offered the customary comfort in such moments while patting his broad, rising and falling back, when he suddenly lifted his head and spoke.
“That man going to a better place would be rather problematic. He’s committed far too many sins.”
“Ah. Yes, that’s… that’s possible. There are many people who don’t fulfill their duties as parents. You don’t have to grieve unconditionally either.”
I stammered out a quick agreement, and he let out a soft chuckle.
“Father was less a man than a beast enslaved to his base instincts. I’ve had poor relations with that philandering fool for as long as I can remember.”
“….”
“He despised acknowledging me as his son. I, too, found it repugnant that half his blood ran through my veins, so perhaps we were in agreement on that point?”
“….”
“To outsiders, we appear to be a distinguished noble house, but in truth, we’ve exhausted ourselves concealing what a fractured mess we are.”
His voice carried an edge sharp as a blade.
“To be honest, I’m neither sorrowful nor tormented. I’m merely indulging in self-pity now. What brings me joy is that you worry for me, hold me tenderly, and show me such care.”
“….”
“That you rushed here to see me like this—it makes me happy….”
He pressed his forehead lightly against my shoulder as if seeking comfort, and I reached out to touch the luminous back of his head. Soft strands of hair slipped between my fingers.
‘Self-pity, nothing of the sort.’
The way he needed me was so vivid, so tangible against my skin, that calling it mere theatrics felt absurd.
Isidore is not the type to summon someone on impulse, much less at such a late hour without prior arrangement. That he would act so impulsively, pushing himself to the point of physical strain to appear before me, suggested he was struggling to bear this situation alone.
‘Though he seems to think it’s nothing serious.’
Suffering doesn’t require the pain of loss to be real. The hollow emptiness of feeling nothing before a parent’s death is perhaps equally arduous.
Throughout his account of his father, Isidore’s fists were clenched so tightly that blue veins rose on the backs of his hands—as if he were swallowing something down with great force.
‘And if he grew up under such a dissolute father, he would recall only wounds, not cherished memories.’
Lacking the gift of eloquent consolation, I offered him my shoulder instead.
Isidore leaned against me, breathing slowly and steadily. As I stroked his broad back rising and falling with each breath, he suddenly lifted his head, fixing me with eyes that held an otherworldly luminescence.
His face had grown gaunt, shadows darkening beneath his eyes, and the dangerous aura he naturally emanated had intensified. He appeared submerged in profound melancholy.
“…Why?”
“Do you like my hands?”
The man who had been setting the mood suddenly said something utterly unexpected.
“What?”
“You’ve been looking at them since earlier.”
“I have?”
“Yes.”
“Why would I? Perhaps they looked cold and bare, so I was watching them. I’m wearing a thick robe, so I’m warm enough, but you’re only in a shirt, so I thought you might be cold.”
My flustered rambling only produced more nonsensical excuses.
“Would you like to touch them? They’re not particularly cold.”
He smiled like a cunning fox and slowly interlaced his fingers with mine. The sensation of his fingers threading between my own felt strangely familiar, and I flinched in surprise.
‘Even when I was drunk, Isidore held my hand like this.’
His hands, pale as snow, were warmer than I expected. They seemed to lack perspiration, the contact point dry, and the firmness of each knuckle unmistakably conveyed the strength of a knight. Then his thumb grazed my palm lightly, and I felt my toes curl involuntarily. I couldn’t bring myself to resist his subtle caress.
‘Perhaps it’s because I have sins to atone for.’
“When you were drunk, you removed your gloves, so I knew you must like this. I deliberately came without gloves today.”
He was laboring under a misunderstanding—that I harbored some particular fondness for hands alone.
‘The truth is, I prefer Isidore’s face more.’
But I couldn’t confess that I had been trying to verify whether he was truly fastidious.
“When did I ever?”
I feigned ignorance.
“Why do you keep pretending not to remember?”
“What am I supposed to do if I genuinely don’t remember?!”
“You’re terrible at acting. It must be a memory you want to forget, isn’t it? I enjoyed it, though.”
“What did you enjoy about it?”
He had touched me without permission, and I had been suffering alone, wracked with guilt.
“It was my first time holding hands with someone I had feelings for. I couldn’t sleep that night because I was so excited.”
“That’s a lie. You’re saying it was your first time holding hands?”
For a moment, I doubted my own ears.
“Why would you think I’m lying? I’ve held hands a few times at the Ball while wearing gloves, but that was the first time with bare hands.”
He suddenly interlaced his fingers with mine so tightly it hurt, and I swallowed hard.
“I’ve always found physical contact with people absolutely repulsive.”
“….”
“I have obsessive-compulsive tendencies.”
Yet despite this, he was casually caressing my hand.
“…Have you overcome it now?”
“No.”
“Is it only your hands that are affected?”
“All bare skin. When I was young, someone tried to touch my face, and I think I broke their hand—or maybe their arm.”
“….”
“I was so upset I might have broken their leg too.”
He curved his lips upward and slowly drew his hand toward himself.
“It’s not that the condition from childhood has improved—you’re simply the exception.”
“….”
“Why do you think that is?”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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