Im'the son of the Villainess's at the Academy

The corridor stretched before her like a cold, indifferent artery through the heart of the Rotschy manor. Rina walked slowly, her steps unsteady, the edges of her crimson dress brushing the marble floor like whispered regrets.

She had left Jin's room behind.

Left his half-smile.

Left the sharpness in his eyes.

Left the echo of his final words.

Now, she stood before the tall door to her guest room—no, *her room*, for she was not simply a guest anymore. She was his wife.

**Lady Rina Rotschy.**

The name tasted strange in her mouth.

She stepped inside.

The room was bathed in silver moonlight, cutting through the tall obsidian-framed windows. The walls were lined with velvet drapes of deep garnet, and the bed was too large for her alone, with its sheets too perfect, untouched.

She did not light a candle.

She sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands in her lap, and the silence of the manor pressed down on her chest like a weight made of invisible stone.

A wife.

She was a wife now.

To a man she barely knew—

To a boy whose words pierced like daggers and who laughed in the face of shame.

Her mind returned, unwillingly, to that dinner. That game. That cruel theatre of questions.

She remembered the way Jin had climbed onto the table, as though the rules of nobility never applied to him. She remembered the way he smirked at her mother—at **Amelia Amberhart**, the golden-eyed lioness who had ruled their household like a queen—and sliced through her pride with words laced in wine and fire.

She remembered the questions.

The **too personal, too sharp, too intimate** questions.

And her mother—

She hadn't faltered.

She had played his game.

Like a warrior stepping into an arena.

Not once did Amelia break, not even when the words turned shameless.

Not even when Rina's face had burned with embarrassment.

> *"Have you ever regretted marrying your husband?"*

> *"Have you ever felt desire for another man while married?"*

Rina could still hear her mother's voice—half-drunken, yet poised.

Her answers were not innocent, yet they were precise. Calculated.

And Jin... he had looked at her like a boy watching fireworks. Like a beast delighted by chaos.

Rina hugged her arms tightly around herself.

Why?

Why had he done it?

Was it only to provoke?

To test boundaries?

To mock them all?

And why had her mother played along so... **easily**?

What did that say about her?

What did that say about *Rina herself*—the daughter who could not even stop them?

She had tried, hadn't she? She remembered throwing the piece of cake at him, like a desperate child trying to silence thunder.

But he had only laughed.

Dodged.

Smiled.

And now\...

Now she was married to him.

She looked down at her left hand.

The ring sparkled faintly in the moonlight. Cold. Heavy. Wrong.

"Rina Rotschy," she whispered.

It didn't sound real.

It sounded like a mistake.

But it was not a dream.

The dress on her body, the silence in the room, the name on her hand—everything was real. She had stepped into something that could not be undone.

Was this how her life would be now?

Living under the same roof as Jin.

With his strange moods and cutting humor.

With his dangerous charm and unsettling gaze.

And then there was Naoko.

The silver-haired goddess of stillness.

Naoko Rotschy had watched the whole scene without blinking, without interrupting, as if she were observing a wild animal she had raised to bite.

Rina shuddered.

Naoko was not like any woman Rina had ever known. She was... beyond human. Cold and untouchable. And for some reason, she had let Jin go on.

Why?

Why did no one stop him?

Was Rina the only one who still clung to the idea of dignity?

Or was she just the only one still trying to live by rules no one else respected?

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.

She couldn't cry.

Not tonight. Not on the first night of her marriage.

She lay back on the bed, still wearing the red dress, arms folded over her chest like a woman buried alive. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling, but she didn't see it. She only saw flames behind her eyelids—flames made of words and questions.

And laughter.

**His laughter.**