The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

* * *
The life of luxury they had enjoyed like noble aristocrats ended abruptly.

“They said they’d assign us new rooms, and they throw us into a dungeon like this?”
Count Visente looked around the prison-like basement with a baffled expression.
The soldier who had brought them there replied,

“By order of Her Highness, the Princess.”
“What? Out of nowhere? And after all the treatment we’ve received—already not enough as it was.”
“That treatment was given only due to the Grand Madam’s request. But your behavior has crossed the line. There is no longer any reason to offer you courtesy. All food, drink, and damaged property will now be billed to you.”

The soldier’s tone was unwavering.
Count Visente and Madam Eleonora both looked shaken, unable to process what was happening.
“You’re saying we have to pay? While staying at our son’s house?”

Count Visente’s face turned red with rage.
“What kind of daughter-in-law throws her in-laws into a back room like this…?”
Madam Eleonora clutched the back of her neck and pretended to faint, but no one paid her any attention, leaving her looking embarrassed.

“Call the princess immediately!”
“She is not someone you can meet just because you wish to.”
“If this is how we’re going to be treated, then I refuse to stay. I’ll go straight to the Grand Madam and report everything. And I’ll speak to the press, too!”

Oliver shouted boldly in threat.
But the soldier maintained a stern face.
“You are not permitted to leave the residence without authorization.”

“This is imprisonment! You think I’ll stay silent? Aren’t you afraid of public backlash?!”
The soldier pulled a document from his coat and responded firmly.
“All events occurring within a military facility are classified. Disclosing such information may be punished under military law—up to and including execution by firing squad.”
“Where’s the law for that?!”

“Madam Eleonora has already signed a waiver acknowledging that she has no objections to any activities within the residence, and will not disclose anything to outside parties.”
Count Visente and Oliver turned to stare at Eleonora at the same time.
Her face had turned ghostly pale.

She remembered the moment Cynthia dropped a sugar cube into her tea, watching it dissolve into nothing. That image now flashed across her mind, and she squeezed her eyes shut in fear.
“Do you know how powerful the title ‘war hero’ is?”
It was only now that she [N O V E L I G H T] realized what it meant—that anything could happen here, and no one outside would ever know.

Stammering, she said,
“That… everyone has to sign that if they want to stay in the residence…”
Count Visente shouted, his face burning with fury.

“You fool! If you signed it, it has nothing to do with me!”
“The Madam is also the mistress of the household. She has full authority to represent the family,” the soldier said as he put the document away, his tone dignified and final.
“As of this moment, none of you may leave this place without express permission. All contact with the outside world is also restricted.”

The three of them went pale. They had come here to live in comfort as in-laws, and now they were imprisoned, unable to do anything.
Then Count Visente’s face shifted to one of sudden realization, and he clamped a hand over his mouth.
“As long as we can stay in touch. You understand? If we lose contact even once, they’ll assume we’ve run—and then even if we bring the money, there’ll be consequences.”

He was recalling the terrifying warning from the organization.
Overwhelmed by fear and desperation, Count Visente snarled,
“That wench has no parents?!”

“Right here.”
Stepping out from behind the soldiers was Count Queensguard.
“She’s only acting like this because she has parental backing. Know your place and stay locked up like livestock. Just eat your slop quietly.”

He gave the upright soldier a few light pats on the shoulder.
“Starve them for three days. Judging by how much they’ve stuffed themselves, they’ll survive just fine.”
* * *

Count Queensguard sat with his legs crossed on a couch in the guest room, massaging his temple.
“She’s clever, that daughter of mine. Pretty, too. She might just stab me in the back one day.”
He had already realized that Helene was behind this scheme.

He had no idea she had inherited her ruthless need to dominate and win from him.
“And yet she’s dealing with Commedia dell’Arte now?”
As a house that once handled the monarchy’s dirtiest tasks, he himself had ties to the underworld.

He’d heard that the organization’s leadership had recently changed—and that all the previous executives were purged.
The new leader, supposedly, was the son of Blake—the man he’d had killed on commission.
“My knight… Please protect another First Lady now.”

He recalled Princess Margarita’s final words and slowly opened his eyes.
Then he saw it—the red necklace swinging before him.
“If you’re sleepy, go lie down.”

It was Cynthia who stood before him.
‘I spent so much time and money trying to retrieve that keepsake.’
His dry gaze shifted from the necklace to her face.

“You like this, don’t you? Rosemary tea,” Cynthia said, placing a warm cup on the table.
As he picked up the teacup, the Count asked,
“Why make it so complicated? They’re just debtors. Even if you killed them, people would assume the organization did it.”

Cynthia took a sip of her milk tea and shook her head.
“The decision is the brigadier’s to make.”
“Well, at least don’t worry about the aftermath. I’ll handle it.”

Cynthia set her cup down and smiled radiantly at him.
“Wow, you’re just like a real dad. I always wished I had a kind father.”
‘…?’

The comment caught him so off guard he nearly spit out his tea. He quickly composed himself, his brow furrowing.
“Don’t say nonsense.”
He’d occasionally thought, ‘If only she were my daughter, we’d make quite the pair.’ But Cynthia was still someone he intended to dispose of soon enough.

‘Filthy things they are, but to think of imprisoning them underground. She’s got a surprisingly vicious side.’
He looked at Cynthia’s seemingly gentle face and thought to himself.
Everyone hides a devil within, wearing a mask of kindness—but surely no one could be as cruel as him.

* * *
Locked in the basement where it was impossible to tell day from night, the prisoners had gone through phases. On the first day, they were furious. On the second, they acted smug, saying the debts would be paid anyway. By the fourth day, fear had begun to set in.
Separated into individual rooms, they were each slowly losing their minds.

Cynthia dragged over a chair and sat in front of the dungeon-like cells.
The captives, sensing movement, rushed to the door slits.
“Princess, please, don’t do this. Masera wouldn’t want something like this,” Madam Eleonora pleaded, trying to reason with Cynthia.

But Cynthia remained silent, smiling.
“Let us go! We’ll leave the residence! The debt deadline is close—we need to contact the outside!”
They begged, shouted, cried, and screamed.

But Cynthia stayed perfectly still, smiling like a porcelain doll.
That was more terrifying than threats.
Only after a long, oppressive silence did Cynthia speak in a bright, cheerful voice.

“There aren’t even any windows down here. No way to escape.”
Madam Eleonora glanced around the dilapidated basement and gasped when her eyes landed on a whip hanging on the wall.
‘She knows. She knows everything we did in the past.’

Seeing Cynthia smile with her lips curled ever so slightly, Eleonora staggered back in fear.
They say a judge has the face of an angel and the resolve of a demon.
‘She’s paying us back—exactly as we once did to her.’

The fear that they might die down here without anyone ever knowing began to consume her.
Madam Eleonora’s legs gave out, and she collapsed to the ground.
“I was wrong! Princess, I’ll do anything you ask!”

Unable to bear the pressure any longer, she finally burst into tears and begged.
Cynthia’s smile remained unchanged.