The Fake Wife of the Strongest Husband Wants to Survive - Chapter 77

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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 77
That particular tone of his—argumentative from the very first meeting with Matthew—had never improved no matter how many times she’d pointed it out.
There was something unsettling about his voice, and Pesha found herself swallowing dryly without thinking.
Owen, who had seemed uncomfortable ever since she first introduced Matthew to him, had taken to appearing suddenly and inserting himself whenever she tried to exchange even the briefest words with the painter.
“Ah… y-you’ve come as well… my lord….”
Matthew, who had feared Owen based only on hearsay, grew visibly paler each time they spoke in person.
“The carriage grew stuffy, so I thought I’d step out for a breath of air for a moment.”
“Are you here to donate your talents for free?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m asking whether you came without charge. Should the patron pay and also appease the painter’s temperament?”
Owen delivered the words with such a flat, deadpan tone, his manner so chillingly cold, that Matthew was seized with terror.
Pesha, seeing how frightened he’d become, his face drained of color, hastened to comfort him.
“He’s just worried about his brother, that’s all.”
Though that was hardly the case, there emanated from Owen a suffocating pressure that seemed to say, “Well, what else would you have me do?”
The moment Owen had announced his intention to enter Seclusion Cultivation, Matthew—who had already been terrified of him—turned positively ashen, trembling uncontrollably.
“A-all right… I think I’ll return to my room.”
“You’d prefer that? You must be exhausted—please get some proper rest.”
Matthew nodded frantically, stealing glances at Owen, before hastily fleeing.
Watching the painter’s retreating figure, Pesha shrugged her shoulders.
“He was never quite this nervous before… Perhaps his ordeal has worn on him, or perhaps he finds you rather frightening.”
“I doubt that’s it.”
“Pardon?”
Owen smirked slightly at Pesha, who had craned her neck so far back to look up at him—standing behind her as he was—that it bent at an awkward angle.
Then, with easy grace, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and began to walk.
“You must be tired yourself after all your work. Let’s retire for now.”
Fulton, who had returned from his duties and witnessed the scene, rubbed the back of his neck as a chill crept down his spine, and reflected.
‘If he were truly that terrified, he’d never have even thought to speak with the lady in front of his lord.’
Judging by the painter’s continued survival, it was clear that Owen was restraining himself as much as possible for the sake of Pesha’s plan.
* * *
Several days passed, and at last the day of the competition dawned.
The Grand Hall of the Art Hall Main Building was laid with polished marble, its ceiling a glass dome that caught and reflected the sunlight in a magnificent spectacle.
Five painters who had advanced through the preliminaries would paint the Princess’s portrait here today.
Whichever work was chosen would see the name of the family that patronized that painter inscribed in history.
The thought of it made Matthew’s heart pound as though it might burst from his chest.
On one side, servants carried painting tools; on the other, guards maintained order.
While Matthew wiped his clammy palms nervously on his trousers, each of the five painters was supplied with an array of painting tools, a variety of pigments, and all manner of materials necessary for the work.
“Hah…”
He was discovering for the first time that an abundance of materials could be daunting.
Surrounded by all these brilliant pigments, he had no sense of which to choose.
Then someone called to him from behind.
“Matthew.”
“Ah, Pesha…”
The moment Matthew saw her, he instinctively looked around.
It had become habit by now—whenever he attempted even a word with her, the House of Namoi’s lord would inevitably appear and subject him to scrutiny.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Nothing at all. But what’s this about?”
Pesha smiled and extended her closed fist toward him.
“What is it?”
“A gift.”
“A gift?”
“Please use this for the portrait today—it’s essential.”
Resting on her open palm was a tin case.
It was small enough to hold cosmetics or trinkets at most, so Matthew couldn’t hide his curiosity as he lifted the lid.
“This is…”
Inside lay a solid pigment of deep, rich, vivid blue.
“What is this?”
“A pigment I created—Ultramarine. I used Swaf’s specialty. Please be certain to use this for your painting.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Though it was undoubtedly beautiful, the color seemed too strong and pure—too bold, he thought, for a portrait.
As though reading his thoughts, Pesha held out her hand again toward him, who had hesitated to take the pigment.
“That’s right. I’ve heard that the fashionable style these days uses bright, soft pastel tones. Even if it weren’t, using such a vivid color in a portrait would stand out far too much.”
“This is impossible. Worse, there isn’t a trace of blue anywhere in Her Highness the Princess’s clothing or accessories today. If I use such a saturated color, I’ll certainly be eliminated.”
Matthew didn’t want to spoil the painting and disappoint her.
He hoped to be a painter who could repay Pesha’s faith—she who had discovered and supported him through difficult times.
But Pesha took Matthew’s hand, passed him the tin case, and asked as though she’d heard something strange.
“Who said anything about being eliminated?”
“What?”
“I’ve never once asked you to win this competition. I only asked you to participate and paint ‘a portrait of Her Highness the Princess.'”
“……”
“The moment I saw ‘Whispers of Lovers,’ I thought: if Matthew Clark can create such a work using only pure colors and complementary colors, then he’ll be the one to make my Ultramarine shine most brilliantly.”
“Pesha, I……”
“You can use any palette you choose. All that matters is that this blue color shines brightest.”
Matthew gripped the tin case, then released it, then gripped it again, his face a maze of confusion.
As he did, the atmosphere around them grew restless.
The competition was about to begin.
Pesha drove home her final point to the wavering painter.
“Paint a picture that’s uniquely yours, not an imitation of someone else’s work. That’s my requirement as your patron.”
With that, Pesha turned and walked back to the box seats without waiting for his answer.
Soon after, Duke Magnus appeared.
Standing on a high platform behind an enormous hourglass, the duke was the one overseeing the competition.
Once the commotion in the hall had settled somewhat, he brought his staff down against the floor with a sharp thud.
The tension-bound air fell calm and still in that instant.
His cold gaze first swept across the nobility seated in the box seats.
Though they pretended to be composed as representatives of their respective houses, each was privately seized by anxiety and anticipation.
Presently, the duke’s gaze turned toward the painters standing frozen before the canvases on the first floor.
“This gathering today is not merely a competition of technique.”
His voice carried a chilling weight.
“It is also a measure of the discernment of loyal houses, yet the most vital thing is to capture the dignity and beauty of Her Highness the Princess. The portrait selected today will be used in all official ceremonies introducing Her Highness, so ensure that you bring your full mastery to bear.”
As the duke finished speaking and gestured, the enormous curtain behind the platform rose silently.
A low gasp rose from the assembly.
There sat Lodriess, the Princess, known as the flower of the Empire, in an arrogant pose upon her chair.
Her expression was cold as marble, and her chin, tilted slightly upward, laid bare her pride without restraint.
Beneath her downcast lashes, her eyes seemed to dismiss the dozens of people gathered here as mere backdrop.
The duke gestured toward the enormous hourglass positioned behind him.
“Your time is four hours. Prove your worth upon the canvas, adding to the honor of your patron’s house.”
He raised his staff high.
“The competition begins.”

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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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