The Fake Wife of the Strongest Husband Wants to Survive - 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
After the Duke left, Pesha had expected Owen to hint at something about the party, but he said nothing at all.
Not only that, he seemed almost serene, as though a burden had lifted from his shoulders.
Pesha found herself torn.
‘Is this really all right? Shouldn’t I refuse while I still can?’
As far as she knew, the last party Owen had attended in the Capital was the one where she had openly rejected his proposal.
‘Doesn’t anyone who goes through something like that get sick just hearing the word “party”?’
Still carrying guilt over what had happened that day, Pesha hesitated for a long time, then carefully broached the subject with him when they returned to their lodgings for dinner.
“That is… about tomorrow’s party at the Fontloy Duke’s Residence.”
Owen, who had been eating quietly, raised his eyes to look at her.
“You don’t care for parties, do you? You’re not forcing yourself to go?”
“I don’t care for them, but one attends when necessary.”
“Ah… I see.”
Pesha nodded awkwardly.
Then Owen let out a quiet laugh.
“You’ve been watching me all day. So that was it?”
“What? Watching? I wasn’t doing any such thing.”
Caught red-handed, she resorted to denial, and he seemed content to let the matter drop without pressing further.
‘A trained swordsman—his instincts are uncommonly sharp.’
Truth be told, she had spent the entire day wrestling with when to bring it up.
Still, it was a relief that he wasn’t forcing himself to attend out of obligation.
The man might be going as a matter of duty, but the nobles at that party could easily look down on Owen or behave toward him with subtle rudeness.
Such an incident was the last thing they needed at a gathering where he might also meet the woman who would become his true wife.
‘Married Couple Status or not, if I don’t help him, who will?’
Pesha swallowed a piece of finely cut meat, her resolve hardening.
* * *
The birthday celebration of a wealthy magnate whose family was an ancient pillar of the kingdom and whose commercial empire lay at his feet was breathtaking in its splendor.
The interior of the mansion was arranged as though someone had lifted an entire grand museum and set it down whole—lined with sculptures carved from quality marble and famous paintings, all masterpieces of renown.
‘Is this genuine? It must be genuine, surely?’
Pesha found herself silently deliberating whether one particular painting hung on the wall was authentic or a copy.
A murmur from behind her drew her attention, and she turned.
Three or four women—whether noble wives or unmarried daughters of the gentry, she couldn’t quite tell—had gathered around Owen and were speaking to him.
“Forgive us. We were talking as we walked and didn’t notice you standing there.”
“Truly, you’re so tall I thought a pillar had been placed in the middle of the hall.”
“But your coat is wrinkled—whatever shall we do about that?”
The women clustered before him were eager to draw out the conversation, yet their object of attention dismissed the matter with an indifferent face and a curt reply.
“It’s fine.”
Still, the women did not depart; they lingered, seemingly reluctant to leave, continuing to fuss over him.
“Fine, you say? But on such an important occasion, your coat is wrinkled like this!”
Had his sleeve merely brushed against someone as he passed?
She couldn’t even discern where the supposed wrinkle was, yet these women were remarkably solicitous.
Whether they were truly concerned for Owen or merely anxious that if they parted ways now they would lose the chance to approach him again, she couldn’t say.
Sensing Pesha’s gaze, Owen abandoned his half-hearted replies to the women and approached her.
“I kept you waiting. Shall we go inside?”
She nodded and glanced at the women as they drifted past, looking dejected at having been so thoroughly dismissed.
Owen had always been striking, but today that striking quality seemed almost overwhelming.
‘It’s extraordinary, truly.’
Believing that a commanding appearance was essential to avoid being looked down upon, Pesha had instructed the servants on the morning of the party to make their utmost effort in preparing the Count.
She had carefully selected his clothes, accessories, shoes, and gloves, handing them to the servants—but the moment she saw Owen wearing them, her heart lurched.
His brown hair, which usually fell loose and casual, had been oiled and combed back neatly, taking on a muted golden sheen; and those eyes, ordinarily dark and stern, seemed somehow softer today, almost languid.
With merely a touch of grooming and elegant attire, his already handsome features had been refined into something almost dazzling to behold.
Because of this, since arriving at the Fontloy Duke’s Residence, the nobles had been stealing glances at Owen, unable to meet his eyes directly.
Whether they recognized him as Owen or not, no one passing by failed to let their gaze linger on him at least once.
She had intended to command respect and prevent casual approaches, but she hadn’t expected to draw this much attention.
At the subtle fervor of so many eyes upon them, Pesha couldn’t help but shake her head.
In fact, they had been waylaid like this three times already on the way to the ballroom, so by now she was past being surprised.
Indifferent to the regretful gazes of the women—or perhaps simply unaware of them—Owen walked straight past them, taking Pesha’s hand as they proceeded, as though the commotion around him held no interest whatsoever.
‘This man really does hold a woman’s hand without the slightest hesitation.’
She had thought his gesture the last time was simply a way of saying they should leave, but since then, whenever they needed to go anywhere, he would naturally take her hand—whether it was an unconscious habit or whether women’s hands simply held no difficulty for him, she couldn’t tell.
In any case, as they entered the ballroom, the crowd came into view, a churning mass of people.
“Surely everyone of note in the Capital has gathered here by now?”
Pesha joked lightly with a smile, and Owen replied with a serious expression.
“That’s true. You might get lost inside, so please don’t stray far from me.”
She wasn’t a child, and it wasn’t as though she’d actually lose her way in the hall.
“As if that would happen.”
Yet Owen didn’t release the hand he’d taken from that moment onward.
Pesha drank and ate while their hands remained clasped together.
She’d come with solemn resolve to protect Owen from the razor-sharp three-inch tongues of high society, but as time passed, she found herself feeling protected instead.
Or rather, it seemed as though some barrier had been erected—fewer people initiated conversation or answered with any genuine warmth from the moment they arrived.
It was strange.
‘At this rate, we’ll leave without meeting anyone.’
Since that wouldn’t do, Pesha tried to pull Owen toward a more crowded area.
Then a familiar name drifted through the bustling throng.
“Miss Clark, you’re absolutely radiant this evening.”
“Your hair is so lustrous—however do you manage it?”
“Might you honor me with a dance?”
The Clark Marquess Clan, with two sons, had but a single daughter.
Io Clark—her childhood companion who had risen to a position of honor in Gubakdaegi as a precious Purifying Magic practitioner had appeared.
Lustrous black hair falling naturally, round and gentle eyes, a small and delicate frame.
Io looked precisely as she had the last time Pesha had seen her.
She gracefully deflected the young nobles’ advances with a refined yet earnest manner that captivated everyone around her.
“Thank you for the kind words. As for dancing, well…”
Io, who had been responding to the approaching men with a smile, suddenly caught Pesha’s eye and trailed off.
She seemed momentarily stunned by this unexpected reunion with her childhood friend.
Pesha, for her part, was delighted to be recognized by Io so quickly.
She waved her hand slightly in greeting, and Io, her cheeks flushed as if from heat, dismissed those around her and approached.
“How wonderful to see you. I’m Io Clark.”
And she greeted Pesha shyly, as though meeting her for the first time.
What was she doing?
Confused, Pesha glanced to the side to see if anyone else was there, and only then noticed Owen Fontloy standing beside her, polished to an unusual sheen.
“Ah!”
Pesha let out a short gasp and quickly snatched her hand away from Owen’s grip.
Io extended her hand expectantly, as if asking for it to be kissed, while Owen gazed down at her quietly.
Pesha silently bit her lip.
‘They’ve fallen for each other at first sight.’

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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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