The Fake Wife of the Strongest Husband Wants to Survive - Chapter 3

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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 3
“So now that you’re getting married, your head’s swollen with pride. How dare you show such contempt for House of Raidel?”
“House of Raidel abandoned me first, so I have no interest in this family either. At least you won’t have to fret about me stealing your position anymore—surely that’s a relief for you too?”
Pesha breezed past Jeremy with a light quip.
With the ban on going out already imposed, she had no desire to quarrel with Jeremy any further and risk drawing their father’s anger for no good reason.
Behind her, Jeremy’s heavy breathing was followed by the sound of his knuckles rapping on their father’s study door.
“Jeremy. Are you keeping up with your studies?”
And as if forgetting when he’d last raised his voice at his son, their father’s tone carried the warmth of genuine welcome—less than before, but still warm.
It would be a lie to say that didn’t sting.
But survival had to come first.
* * *
The marriage between Owen of House Namoi and Pesha of House Raidel had briefly set high society ablaze with gossip. Pesha’s reckless outburst had kept tongues wagging a touch longer, yet that was all there was to it.
In the end, their marriage remained very much real.
The Duke of Raidel, humiliated at a state gala attended by the Emperor himself, had hastily converted the wedding into a private affair with only close family present. Moreover, Owen had spent his youth—some dozen years of it—on the battlefield as a common soldier, leaving almost nothing known of his private life.
With so little known of Owen, there was nothing for society to speculate upon.
The only lingering note in the gossip was a touch of regret that Pesha, counted among high society’s most beautiful women, should have married away so uneventfully.
Interest faded quickly, and a month passed before the wedding day arrived.
The Bridal Waiting Room, adjoining the Chapel where the ceremony was to be held, bore the grim atmosphere of a funeral parlor.
As Pesha sat at the vanity, gazing into the mirror, Mini, the servant who had raised her, began combing her hair with an expression caught between sorrow and tears.
“Miss, you’re so beautiful today. Sob—why must you be so beautiful when…….”
“Enough, Mini. Do you want Father to punish you too?”
Pesha chided the maid, her silver hair gathered thick and long in a single braid that hung past her shoulders.
Her violet eyes, delicate as violets themselves, sat just as heavy with gloom, yet she mustered the strength to comfort those around her.
“Girls, I’m not being sold off somewhere. I’m getting married…….”
In truth, being sold off was exactly what this was.
As Owen’s reputation soared, public opinion increasingly demanded that the Emperor grant him a dukedom.
The people had spoken. Even an Emperor could hardly defy such overwhelming support.
Yet the thought of raising a mere mercenary, not yet thirty years old, to ducal rank offended his pride.
So the Emperor had devised a scheme: rather than grant Owen a dukedom outright, he would arrange for him to marry into a ducal house, publicly appearing magnanimous while ensuring he had a respectable in-law family—all while secretly preventing Owen’s power from growing any further.
Had she been Io, Pesha would have navigated this marriage somehow, but she was not.
‘If only I had that Purification Ability, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this.’
Pesha drew a long, hidden sigh.
No matter how hard she tried not to dwell on it, worry kept washing over her.
What if he takes offense at my rudeness at the gala and decides he wants nothing to do with me?
It wouldn’t be unreasonable of him to do so. And yet, when it’s obvious to anyone that marrying into this situation means certain misery, how could anyone simply agree to it without protest?
I’ve lived decently. I haven’t done anything wrong!
Since Owen’s lands were contaminated and Io possessed the Purification Ability, the two of them would inevitably need each other.
‘There’s only one way forward: claim my share before anyone else does, then hand Owen over to Io and slip away as fast as I can.’
As this thought crossed her mind, the time for the bride’s entrance drew near, and a servant outside the Bridal Waiting Room gave a soft knock on the door.
“Miss, are you ready?”
All eyes in the room turned toward Pesha.
Pesha, who had been steadying her nerves by studying her reflection, gave a heavy nod and rose from her seat.
“Yes. I’m coming out now.”
The servants, their expressions carefully controlled, lifted the hem of Pesha’s Wedding Dress as she stood.
“Open the door.”
At Pesha’s command, the servants pulled open the door to the Bridal Waiting Room.
Pesha stepped forward with rigid resolve, her body braced as if she were about to charge into battle.
The Chapel just beyond the Bridal Waiting Room loomed before her with its doors thrown wide open—like some fearsome beast gaping its maw to swallow prey whole.
As she entered, the first thing she saw was the guests seated in the chapel’s pews: family on one side.
On the left sat the relatives of House of Raidel, and on the right…….
‘What?’
Pesha’s footsteps halted abruptly as she began to walk the Virgin Road.
The right side of the guest section held only three or four people.
Though they wore civilian dress, they stood with the rigid posture and precise angles of soldiers—there was no mistaking it.
They appeared to be Owen’s subordinate officers.
‘Good grief. With no relatives to seat, they’ve had to put his adjutants in the guest section.’
Indeed, Owen was an orphan.
With no parents, there could be no relatives to invite.
But surely there had to be another way!
She could plainly see the relatives of House of Raidel, unable to look away, whispering among themselves about the gaping emptiness of the right side.
Pesha, bothered by the thought, stole a glance at Owen standing at the far end of the Virgin Road, watching his back.
He seemed oblivious to her arrival, his gaze fixed only on the High Priest who stood before him as the officiant.
Pesha stared at his broad shoulders, the fabric drawn taut across them, swallowed hard, and walked toward him with an almost reckless stride.
When she reached the groom’s side with a boldness unusual for a bride, the officiant—whose expression had grown as bewildered as those on her family’s side of the chapel—cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Well, then. Let us proceed with the Declaration of Marriage.”
“…….”
“Groom and bride, having sworn to stand together through all of life’s joys and sorrows in this blessed gathering of family and loved ones—is this correct?”
“…….”
“Is this correct?”
The High Priest asked again, but Owen offered no answer.
So Pesha, belatedly, spoke in a small voice instead.
“Yes, yes… I do.”
When she glanced to the side, Owen’s face had gone rigid, his gaze fixed on the High Priest with undisguised hostility.
‘Does he hate this marriage so much that he glares at the poor officiant?’
The thought only made the already unwelcome ceremony feel worse.
‘And what am I supposed to be pleased about?’
She felt her mouth twist while the High Priest continued with his blessing.
She had a memory of attending a wedding as a guest once where the officiant’s remarks had dragged on unbearably.
But this frightened High Priest, desperate to escape Owen’s withering stare, hurried through his words.
“Now, if you will exchange rings.”
At that, Owen turned toward Pesha for the first time all day.
It was nearly the first real chance she’d had to see his face properly.
As he slipped the ring onto her finger, Pesha found herself staring at him.
The fear of being killed by this man had consumed her thoughts until now, but seeing him clearly, Owen was a striking beauty—the kind of face you couldn’t look away from once you had.
Beneath slightly tousled caramel-brown hair, sharp dark eyebrows traced a strong jawline, and black eyes set in an intense, almost fierce gaze cut into her with unsettling sharpness.
His nose was as chiseled as a blade, and his lips remained tightly pressed together.
Were it not for his station, prospective brides would have lined the streets—such raw, formidable masculine presence radiated from him.
While she stood mesmerized, the ring was slipped onto her finger.
Now it was her turn to place the ring on him.
With slightly trembling hands, Pesha slid the ring onto Owen’s thick finger.
The matching rings caught the light, glinting in the sun, and the sight filled her with an inexplicable heaviness.
As she stared at the rings, breathing quietly through her sadness, the High Priest spoke again.
“Now we come to the Kiss of Vow.”

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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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