Chapter 7

“Please, kiss me on the lips.”

Did she not feel ashamed of begging someone who wasn’t even her lover to kiss her?

“That will have to wait until everything is settled.”

“I can’t hold back anymore.”

“Only by overcoming obstacles can our love become genuine. I don’t want to give in to momentary desire with someone I’ve already chosen as my lifelong partner.”

Anyone listening from the sidelines could easily tell that Helena wasn’t loved at all. But when she was the one involved, her eyes suddenly became clouded. She could think of nothing but the handsome man before her, consumed by the desperate need to believe that he loved her.

If she had any real confidence in his feelings, she wouldn’t be acting like this. It was obvious which of the two held the upper hand, and once a relationship’s balance of power had been established, it would never be reversed.

Vincent kissed Helena on her rounded forehead and whispered something in her ear. Judging by the foolish, slack expression on her face, she had probably received another empty declaration of love.

“Ophelia will be coming here soon. You should return to your room first.”

“You wouldn’t dream of touching my elder sister, would you?”

“Do you not trust me?”

His voice never rose, but there was something sinister in his quiet, restrained manner that inspired a sticky, creeping sense of dread. Helena shook her head vigorously before leaving the room.

Even from where I watched by the window, I could feel Vincent’s languid atmosphere washing over me. This man didn’t love Helena in the slightest.

He sank deep into the couch and elegantly crossed his long legs. Then he took an intricately decorated locket from his chest and gazed at it with rapturous eyes, as though he had discovered the greatest treasure of the century.

“Ah, my Ophelia. There isn’t a woman in this entire world more beautiful than you.”

That’s right. This man was a lunatic. A fanatic who had harbored a twisted affection for Ophelia, his fiancée since childhood. In public, he treated her with disdain, while deep inside, an excessively intense love simmered and boiled over.

As far as I was concerned, this wasn’t love at all. It was nothing more than self-gratification. I was hardly in a position to lecture anyone, considering I had once been called the villainess of the century, but nothing was more terrifying than affection that the recipient didn’t want.

He was only twenty, yet he possessed such extraordinary talent that he was hailed as a Sword Saint. Even so, in a country governed by absolute primogeniture—the rule that the eldest child inherits before their younger siblings—the Third Prince’s value was hardly great. He was the perfect pawn to raise the royal family’s prestige: a man who willingly headed to the front lines of the battlefield to earn military glory.

He sympathized with Ophelia, who had been deprived of a loving family and a fortunate upbringing. Yet he had taken it upon himself to deify her despite her having grown into a gentle and modest woman. And once he realized he couldn’t have her, he would destroy her.

In a way, there were aspects of him that reminded me of myself. But now that I was a cat, I hated him so much that he made me want to puke.