Isn’t Being A Wicked Woman Much Better? - Chapter 27

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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 27
“…What business is it of yours?”
Isidore turned my own words back on me, shortening his stride to match my pace.
We passed through the quiet Side Path, devoid of any wandering souls, and arrived at the rear of the Main Mansion where the carriage awaited. A servant who had been idling in the corner rushed toward me, attempting to help support my weight, but Isidore smoothly bypassed him and guided me directly to the carriage door.
The moment his sturdy frame released me, the fresh fragrance that had lingered near my nose began to fade. As I felt an inexplicable emptiness wash over me, my body suddenly lifted, and my rear settled gently onto the carriage seat.
He had lifted my body without hesitation and placed me in the chair.
“Take care on your way in.”
Isidore grasped the carriage door and spoke with perfect composure, as though nothing had happened.
Where on earth had he learned such chivalry—casually hoisting an unsuspecting person into the air? I steadied my racing heart and opened my mouth.
“I owe you a debt.”
“Lady Deborah Simour, in moments like these, one simply says thank you.”
He stretched his well-shaped lips into a teasing smile.
“…Thank you, Sir Isidore.”
I spoke slowly, watching the crescent-moon curve of his eyes. Truthfully, had Isidore not displayed such meddlesome—or rather, chivalrous—concern, I would have collapsed ungracefully before Philaf and Miya.
“…”
Yet instead of laughing it off as I expected, he regarded me with an odd expression. Gazing into his emerald eyes, which had widened in surprise, I felt my stomach drop.
Wait. That didn’t sound very villainous of me.
“I-I mean, to be startled by a mere thank you. I say it so rarely—like beans sprouting in a drought. I’m absolutely not the sort of person who thanks others easily, you understand.”
I added a rambling excuse that barely qualified as an explanation.
“What an honor. Now do rest inside.”
Isidore chuckled as though bewildered, and just as he began closing the carriage door, he suddenly flung it wide open again. He thrust his handsome face into the carriage, and I flinched in surprise.
What on earth?
“Ah, Lady Deborah, you really ought to develop a better eye for men.”
Bang!
The carriage door shut without mercy.
I’d just heard something rather absurd, but the carriage, oblivious to my bewilderment, began moving forward slowly.
“…Ugh!”
The delayed realization hit me like a wave, and I gripped my hair fiercely.
If Philaf were truly my type, I wouldn’t be this infuriated. That hot-blooded, macho type—I wouldn’t want him even if someone forced him on me.
Moreover, I wasn’t the only one who disliked him. Philaf consistently ranked near the bottom in any popularity poll among the men of High Society.
Why did Deborah Simour have to be so incompatible with me in taste that she’d burden me with her garbage? Why did I have to inherit her cast-off man?
Trembling with indignation, I spent the entire night throwing high kicks into the empty air.
* * *
Meanwhile, that night, Deborah Simour was not the only one unable to sleep.
“Thank you, Sir Isidore.”
Her voice echoed in his ears, and Isidore found himself closing his eyes involuntarily.
Hearing his name spoken by her for the first time carried a certain softness to it.
As the image of her cat-like, narrowed eyes and ruby-red irises surfaced in his mind, an unsettling sensation bloomed deeper within him. Having only ever encountered her in the dim confines of the Blanche Office, her crimson eyes seemed all the more vivid tonight.
Tossing in bed, Isidore found himself replaying that moment endlessly, until his brow suddenly furrowed.
“Lady Deborah Simour’s devotion to Sir Philaf certainly has a long history, doesn’t it?”
Miguel’s words came to mind.
‘Pure love, my foot… It’s simply that her taste in men is abysmal.’
Honestly, I’m far better-looking.
In the end, Isidore failed to fall asleep and rose from his bed, taking up his sword to head toward the Training Ground.
* * *
‘Damn it.’
Philaf, too, couldn’t sleep and was wasting time at the Training Ground. Whenever he recalled how Isidore had verbally dismantled him like a burglar ransacking an empty house, he’d jolt awake even from sleep.
That wasn’t all.
‘Why the hell did that bastard even interfere? He keeps insisting it’s not his fault, but by any reasonable account, Deborah Simour was clearly in the wrong.’
“I’ve already told you twice—it’s not a lie. Are you too stupid to understand unless I say it a hundred times?”
For nearly six years, she had circled his world with tedious persistence, yet that dry, frigid gaze of hers—what was that about? As if I were the one misunderstanding something.
‘Is she trying to capture my attention through some new method now? Fine. I’ll give credit where it’s due.’
In that moment, his irritation and concern were so acute that he’d completely forgotten even Miya.
Philaf left the Training Ground with a bitter expression.
* * *
“They say Philaf carried the injured Miya like a princess. Did you hear?”
“I saw it myself. But why on earth would he do that?”
“Why else? Because of Deborah Simour. Just when things seemed quiet, here we go again this year. Poor Philaf must be exhausted.”
The sight of Philaf carrying the injured Miya across the Courtyard like a princess became quite the topic of conversation among the nobility. Especially since there hadn’t been much entertainment in High Society lately.
And Madam Ophelia seemed quite pleased with the situation, praising Miya.
“For light to shine more brilliantly, it requires adequate darkness surrounding it. If there’s a virtuous protagonist, then naturally a villain must exist as well. Perhaps that’s why you shine all the more brightly, Miya.”
She spoke like reciting poetry as she tended to Miya’s bloodied knee.
Miya gazed silently out the window. White blossoms now covered the bare branch where a single flower had hung so forlornly before.
“Indeed, being entangled with Simour carries far greater impact. Treating commoners in squalid places pales in comparison when it comes to generating buzz.”
As the red liquid Ophelia held seeped into Miya’s wound, the injury began to darken.
“Always remember that nobility is deeply invested in such gossip, Miya.”
Instead of responding, Miya let out a hollow laugh.
“In any case, Deborah Simour’s harassment will likely intensify from here on.”
“Perhaps.”
Ophelia spoke of how Deborah Simour, blinded by jealousy, would commit all manner of terrible acts and thereby create buzz around Miya in High Society. So Miya had been bracing herself for severe harassment.
But contrary to Madam’s expectations, she had remained far too quiet. Eventually, to draw that woman’s attention, Miya had even staged a pathetic farce—separating Philaf briefly before falling right in front of her.
“What if that woman doesn’t harass me? She’s been quiet all this time.”
At Miya’s question, Ophelia laughed heartily.
“Oh my, that’s impossible! A woman who’s been obsessed with Philaf for a full six years must harbor deep resentment toward you. Her recent docility must have been calculated for some purpose.”
Miya pressed her lips together, then nodded. Madam Ophelia had never been wrong—not once.
She was an intelligence source beyond compare, intimately acquainted with every major figure in High Society.
“A fine stage will soon be arranged. Deborah Simour, who possesses neither ability, grace, nor reputation, has only bloodline as her asset—and Aracron values that above all.”
“Ah—”
“Since Philaf failed to secure the Pink Diamond, he carries a debt of obligation and will actively recommend you to Aracron, his own faction.”
So there would continue to be points of contact with Deborah Simour. Miya immediately grasped the implication of Ophelia’s words.
“I understand what you’re saying.”
“The Social Club is important, but above all, you must become the center of attention at the Spring Festival and earn the title of ‘Flower of the Year.'”
The wound that had darkened like a stain gradually faded. Madam Ophelia continued speaking as she finished pouring the crimson liquid from the glass vial onto the wound above the opposite knee.
“So… during the remaining time, you must focus on elevating the purity of your divine power. Miya.”
“Aah!”
Madam Ophelia carved a deep wound into Miya’s pale calf with her blade. As the crimson liquid flowed down like blood, seeping into the scar, Miya’s blue eyes darkened with an ominous black shimmer.

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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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