The Fake Wife of the Strongest Husband Wants to Survive - Chapter 73

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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 73
Pesha sat in the Reception Room with her legs crossed, sipping her tea.
Beside her stood a single canvas—Lover’s Whisper—propped against the wall.
A maid’s knock shattered the quiet.
“Madam. I’ve brought Matthew Clark.”
“Show him in.”
As the door opened, Pesha set down her teacup.
Matthew appeared in shabby clothes, his eyes brimming with curiosity and wariness in equal measure.
Pesha greeted him with a smile.
“Welcome.”
He asked his question without ceremony, but Pesha answered without hesitation.
“I hear you’ve purchased Lover’s Whisper.”
“Yes. I thought it would look lovely hung in the manor.”
Pesha tilted her head toward the painting beside her.
Truthfully, Pesha knew nothing about art.
To her eye, the painting looked like nothing more than a dreary scrawl.
Yet in the original story, Lover’s Whisper was Matthew Clark’s masterpiece—his magnum opus, whose price had skyrocketed after his miraculous resurgence as an artist.
‘It must be worth a fortune. But that’s not what I’m after.’
What mattered was the deal she intended to strike with him now.
“What made you buy that? It’s nothing but… a scrawl born from whatever I was feeling at the time.”
“Doesn’t art begin the moment such emotion comes through so vividly?”
“……”
Pesha rose from her chair and extended her hand to Matthew.
“It’s good to meet you properly. I’m the wife of House of Namoi, and my name is Pesha.”
“Pesha?”
Matthew stared at the outstretched hand, his eyes widening before he suddenly looked up.
Until now, his spirit had been so crushed that he’d kept his gaze on the floor, never truly seeing the woman’s face—but hearing that name from her lips gave him pause.
As their eyes met, Matthew asked, bewildered.
“Pesha? Pesha Raidel?”
“Seems you remember me. It’s been a while, Matthew.”
Only then did the appearance of the woman offering him her hand truly register.
Because they’d spent time together so young, he couldn’t instantly recognize who she’d become with age, but the context suggested she was Raidel’s daughter—Io’s childhood friend.
“How did you end up here? Wait—did that little girl actually get married? And to Owen Namoi of all people?”
His shock brought back memories of those early years when the Clark siblings and she had been close.
Fabiano Clark, the eldest, had always been disagreeable, but Matthew had never shared his arrogance.
Rather, he was more relaxed and yielding than most.
Perhaps that’s why he’d married against his family’s wishes and accepted estrangement so readily.
Knowing his nature, her words came more easily.
Pesha broke into laughter, her expression playful.
“Ah, you’re shocked because of my husband? If you don’t believe me, shall I call him?”
“What? No! No, please!”
Matthew’s face went pale.
He’d heard the rumors about her husband well enough.
He was called the Empire’s Guardian Sword—as strong and brave as the tales suggested, but equally terrifying.
He had neither the nerve to summon such a man nor the courtesy to impose on his hostess Pesha in such a way.
After an awkward handshake, Matthew sat hesitantly and finally ventured a question.
“But Pesha, why did you call me here……?”
He stumbled through words that were neither formal nor casual, and as he sat, Pesha smiled and produced a document, handing it to him.
“Well, let me be blunt. Would you paint a picture for me?”
“A picture……?”
Matthew asked, bewildered.
“Yes. If you paint just one picture for me, I’ll gift your wife and daughter a fine house in the Capital to live in, and cover all living expenses and education costs until your daughter comes of age.”
“Out of nowhere? What picture exactly are you asking for?”
“A portrait of the Princess.”
Matthew’s expression hardened.
“A p-p-portrait of Her Highness the Princess—why me of all people……?”
Portrait painting, by its nature, demands that one render a person vividly and attractively, but Matthew had never possessed much talent for rendering forms realistically.
Like Lover’s Whisper, he primarily painted abstractions whose forms were hard to discern, and on the rare occasions when he did paint objects, he concentrated on their symbolism or conceptual essence rather than their appearance.
A bitter smile crossed his lips.
‘Of course. I should have known better than to expect such luck.’
Matthew smiled awkwardly, his gaze fixed on the floor.
“Ah… look, I’m sorry, Pesha. For this job, I think it’d be better if you found someone else.”
“Why?”
“Well, there are plenty of talented painters besides me. I’ve barely done any portrait work.”
Pesha, who had been watching him intently, spoke up.
“You lack confidence?”
“It’s not about confidence—portrait painting simply isn’t my strength. I’m more…”
“That’s what lacking confidence is.”
Her matter-of-fact tone struck something in Matthew, and he launched into a longer explanation.
“My painting style isn’t suited to portraiture. You may not know this, but everything I’ve painted so far tends toward the Abstract Painting, and my colors are quite intense—those qualities don’t work for portraiture.”
“Whether they work or not is for the public and judges to decide. Honestly, I don’t care whether you’re good at portrait painting or not.”
“Pardon?”
While Matthew reeled, Pesha spoke with absolute certainty.
“Other painters can produce precise, ruler-straight portraits just fine. But only you can paint a portrait the way Matthew Clark paints.”
“…”
“What I want to show the Princess is a portrait painted by Matthew Clark—not an exact reproduction of her face, like a woodblock print.”
Matthew felt cornered.
He’d rarely attempted portraits in his life, and even those he’d started were usually left unfinished.
Moreover, he couldn’t fathom why his painting style—hardly that of a great master—would be needed at all.
“If you can paint at all, then it has to be you.”
Matthew found Pesha’s groundless insistence overwhelming.
“I understand what you’re saying. But I need time to think…”
This was undeniably a tremendous opportunity to let slip away.
Whatever she meant about not worrying over skill, he could secure a comfortable living simply by handing over one irresponsible painting.
But could he truly accept that, in good conscience?
Could he abandon his pride and integrity and live with that the rest of his life?
An immediate decision was impossible.
He needed to wrestle with this conflict.
Pesha listened silently, then set a deadline for his deliberation.
“Fine. I’ll give you five minutes. Decide by then.”
“Five minutes? Not five days?”
Pesha’s eyes narrowed, as though he’d said something ridiculous.
“Are you joking? The Competition is in three weeks. And you want to spend five days just thinking about it?”
“What? Three weeks? Wait, hold on—isn’t this Competition important to you? What if I ruin it?”
“Who’s going to ruin it? You?”
“No… that’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t make bets I can’t win. For this Competition, you’re the safest choice I have.”
“…”
“So decide. If you say no, I’ll find someone else.”
At the mention of finding someone else, Matthew stammered out a protest.
“B-but you just said I was the optimal choice…”
“Exactly. But how can I force someone who doesn’t want to do it? If you refuse, I have no choice but to find an alternative. Time’s running out.”
The way she spoke as though Matthew was perfect for the job, yet declared herself ready to abandon him the moment he declined, made his heart quicken with urgency.
He couldn’t let such an opportunity slip away.
But if he failed to win… word would spread through all of noble society, and both his father and brother would mock him, hold him in contempt.
After leaving his family’s house with such bravado, to fail at the Competition would surely invite ridicule…
“Have you finished thinking?”
Pesha, her legs crossed and arms folded, tapped her index finger against her arm with deliberate clicks.
“…”
He hadn’t finished, but regardless, he had to do whatever it took for his daughter.
“…I-I’ll do it.”
Though Matthew still looked uncertain, when Pesha saw him willing to bear everything for paternal love, she smiled broadly and gave a sharp nod.
“Good. Shall we draw up the Contract right now?”
Matthew swallowed hard as he watched Pesha sign the document a maid handed forward as if on cue.
She couldn’t possibly be unaware that he’d set down his brushes long ago.
As he thought about how her confidence—employing a half-finished painter without hesitation—somehow gave him courage.

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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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