"I have a fiancé!"
"Yeah.
Break up with him."
"..."
His audacious demand left Marin speechless for a long moment.
"If it's difficult to tell the groom yourself, I'll say it for you."
Marin's head spun from the sheer unceremonious pressure, but she fought to bring the conversation back to solid ground.
"Listen.
I'm not interested in His Highness the Third Prince."
"*What?* Why?
*Why?*"
Tan's obsidian-black pupils darted restlessly, as though genuinely baffled.
"I already told you—I'm not interested.
If you keep asking like that—"
"Young lady, take a closer look."
He leaned in, cupping his hands beneath his chin.
"How can you *not* be intrigued by a face like this?
Are you blind?"
He thrust his face practically nose-to-nose with hers.
His jet-black eyes glittered with mischief, and his dark skin contrasted beautifully with the sparse fall of lemon-colored hair across his brow.
The effect was undeniably, infuriatingly striking.
Staring point-blank at the handsome man before her, Marin suddenly had an epiphany.
"That's... true."
"See?
Your vision is perfectly fine, right?"
"I suppose I've just gotten too used to it."
She thought it over and nodded to herself in understanding.
"Used to what?"
"There are too many good-looking men around me, and this—"
Marin, who had unconsciously voiced her thoughts aloud, quickly snapped her lips shut.
"Oh.
Well, that *is* a problem.
Hmm."
He tilted his head thoughtfully.
"If you're not attracted to my beauty, what about my *body?*"
He flexed one bicep with shameless pride, the dense muscle rippling beneath smooth skin.
Marin quickly shook her head and refocused on her relentless conversational partner.
"Why are you even behaving like this?"
"I fell in love at first sight."
Tan narrowed his eyes seductively and smiled with devastating ease.
His flippant confession made her want to laugh despite herself.
Unlike the Omen Empire, Emperor Sanders of the neighboring kingdom had many sons—and a fierce, shadowy struggle raged constantly among them for favor and succession.
"I'm actually incredibly popular, you know.
Let me go now and you'll regret it later."
Marin studied the Third Prince with growing confusion.
Gerald stood surrounded by the idle chatter of several dukes, his jaw clenched tight with displeasure.
He was near them physically—but he didn't hear a single word they said.
All his attention was focused on Marin in the distance.
He had watched her covertly the entire ride in the carriage.
A debutante ball was meant to be a glittering spectacle—a scattering of diamonds and silk—so why could he see only *her?*
The dress she wore—a delicate, soft peach that bordered on nude—brought out the luminous quality of her skin.
A dark, thick, possessive hunger rose within him: *to hide her away, to keep her for himself alone.*
At the thought, Gerald swallowed a wry, bitter smile.
Having seen Marin just once, the desire to look at her endlessly had become unbearable.
He still hadn't found his sister's true killer.
Which meant he couldn't yet reveal that his sight had returned.
To keep his enemies completely off guard, no one could know what he could see.
And yet—when the day finally came to reveal the truth—he would tell *her* first.
"Duke of the West, are you even listening to me?"
The Southern Duke's voice was sullen, edged with irritation.
"I'm not."
"*What?*"
A painfully familiar voice reached Gerald's ears from across the hall.
Rage boiled up inside him, hot and acidic.
He wanted to snarl at the dukes surrounding him to get lost immediately.
But there were too many eyes watching.
So instead, he decided to leave.
"I'll take my leave."
Gerald raised his head, his tone bordering on a growl.
"We're still in the middle of a conversation—" The Southern Duke looked taken aback.
But Gerald had already turned and was cutting a direct path toward Marin.
Obstacles immediately rose in his way.
"Your Grace!
It's been so long since we—"
"Disappear."
"Ah—"
"Your Grace, Duke, do you remember—"
"Move."
"Y-yes."
Having brushed past—or outright ignored—dozens of aristocrats, he had nearly reached Marin when Tan's insinuating voice rang out clearly:
"I'm actually incredibly popular, you know.
Let me go now and you'll regret it later."
"Your Highness, Third Prince."
Gerald wedged himself firmly between them.
"How old are you?"
Tan looked positively delighted, waving one hand cheerfully.
"Oh, Duke of the West!
It's been a while!
And what's with the sudden question about age?"
"I asked first."
"A year younger than you."
Gerald's jaw clenched so hard it ached.
"It's time for you to move away."
"What?"
"I said—" His voice dropped, icy and lethal.
"Get away from my woman."
Tan blinked, taken aback—then laughed and glanced at Marin with newfound amusement.
"So your fiancé is the Duke of the West?"
"Yes."
"Hmm.
The Duke of the West..."
For the briefest instant, something sharp and dangerous flickered in his black eyes—but it vanished before anyone could catch it.
"Duke of the West, I've agreed to be friends with your fiancée."
Tan's smile was all teeth and mischief.
"I expect your understanding?"
Gerald's brow furrowed sharply.
He turned his gaze toward Marin, silently demanding confirmation.
"Why did we decide to be friends?"
Marin objected, thoroughly perplexed.
"Since you switched to informal address with me," Tan said smoothly.
"You're on a *first-name basis?*"
A deep crease appeared instantly between Gerald's brows.
"No.
I was talking to myself."
"Does anyone talk to themselves that loudly?"
Tan teased, grinning.
"Once—"
"He's talking."
Gerald was irritated by the very fact that she was exchanging words with the prince at all.
"What?"
"*He's talking.*" His tone was clipped, final.
"And I already told you—move away."
"Wow.
The Duke's in rare form today."
Tan shrugged with exaggerated innocence.
"Your Highness, Third Prince."
The Duke's voice carried a clear warning.
Tan raised both palms in mock surrender, grumbling theatrically:
"Okay, okay.
Why does the Duke always get everything I set my sights on?
He even snatched up the blacksmith I had my eye on in a flash."
Marin couldn't resist her curiosity.
She leaned in slightly and whispered, "Suren?"
"Does Candy know Suren too?"
"*Candy?*"
The Duke's voice dropped to a frighteningly low register.
"I'm *Marin,*" she said clearly, shooting a pointed glance at the Duke.
"Does Sweetie Marin know Suren too?"
Tan continued blithely, either oblivious to the warning or deliberately ignoring it.
"*Candy Marin?*"
The Duke's voice grew even heavier—as though it had clawed its way up from the underworld itself.
A chill ran down Marin's spine.
She said hastily, "I'm *just* Marin.
If His Highness doesn't leave, then *I* will."
"Got it, got it."
Tan raised his hands in surrender.
"Then I'll see you next time."
He reached out to take Marin's hand—presumably to kiss it in parting—but the Duke's large palm clamped firmly over both of hers, shielding them entirely.
"Well then, Sweetie Marin—see you later!"
Tan beamed with unabashed glee, waved cheerfully, and disappeared into the crowd.
The top of Marin's head was practically tingling with tension.
She didn't dare look up.
Even the nobles lingering near the champagne table had scattered under the prickly, dangerous chill radiating from the Duke.
Marin looked down at her hands, completely engulfed by his single palm.
"Um...
Lord Gerald?" she ventured timidly, trying to gauge his mood.
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"That's correct."
His tone was flat, clipped.
"It's not your fault.
It's the men who are going mad.
And you're just standing there."