The Uneasy Car Ride
The car felt unbearably awkward, stiflingly so. The familiar landscapes streaked past the windows, yet they did nothing to settle the storm of unease churning in Kayla’s chest.
It was the same suffocating panic that had once seized her as a child—back when she had been accused of theft.
“…Actually, it’s true. I was the thief.”
Kayla bit her lip hard, her gaze flicking sideways to the man beside her. Nigel had leaned back against the seat, arms crossed over his chest, face turned toward the window. Whether he was watching the scenery or simply lost in thought was impossible to tell.
Yet the soft, measured taps of his gloved index finger against his forearm stirred a memory in her mind: the moment a peach tree burst into bloom, the low laughter drifting beyond the branches, snowflakes piling upon a chessboard where the pieces waited for their master.
‘Oh, no.’
Eyes fluttering shut in an attempt to steady her racing thoughts, she forced them open again.
“Miss Moss, do you have the case details memorized?”
From the front passenger seat, Karlso turned, handing over a folder. “Everything, including the classified sections. Commit it to memory.”
Kayla snatched the folder open without hesitation.
The report painted a grim picture. Late at night, a tip called the police station: Basil had been murdered. His car had been found on the bridge over the Charr River, driver’s door wide open. A peculiarity—his chest was slashed with the words “Hypocrite” carved into his skin, his trousers torn away and left in barbaric display. Death was estimated to have resulted from a single, vicious thrust of a sharp, long knife that had pierced his artery outright.
It was bewildering. Especially the image of Basil’s final moments: a man who had survived so much, now reduced to something so fragile.
After the killing, the perpetrator had lingered, devoting painstaking care to defacing the body rather than fleeing at once. Whether out of personal hatred or twisted desire, the motive remained a mystery. Why take such elaborate care? Was it genuine vengeance, or merely a calculated distraction?
The method itself was no amateur’s work—elegant, precise, almost masterful.
Whoever had done it, it was almost certainly a powerfully built adult male. A lone assassin… or someone else?
Kayla’s thoughts spun, but she forced herself to keep reading.
The tipster described seeing a suspicious man and woman loitering near the scene. The man had been observed embracing the woman before they vanished into a nearby flat.
The news alone was enough to jolt anyone, yet when she read the address of the flat in the tipster’s handwriting, her breath caught.
‘He didn’t come to my flat himself? Then who…?’
Her scalp prickled, her heart tightening as though squeezed in a vise.
Her unfocused gaze drifted to the radio, where the broadcast had frozen. Beside it, a photograph of Princess Theophania filled the screen.
Even in black and white, the vivid image of fiery red hair, brilliant complexion, and piercing crimson eyes burned into her mind.
The article stated that the duke, after completing his long tour, planned to enter the palace early that morning to celebrate his marriage to the princess.
‘While still engaged.’
Everything felt hopelessly tangled.
“I will never let it pass.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her voice startled her. She desperately hoped he hadn’t heard.
Yet when she turned her head away in haste, she froze.
She didn’t know when it had happened, but the duke’s piercing blue eyes were locked on her, reading her every thought.
“Is this a warning… or concern?”
She couldn’t answer, only rolling her eyes in response. His mocking remark struck her cheek.
“Oh? Not me, then?”
It was an awkward lie, but she merely pressed her lips together and raised her chin.
“Who?”
“You?”
“Who, exactly. Someone I won’t simply ignore and harm.”
“I suppose that’s why you defended your fiancé just now—”
Tsk.
The sound of his tongue clicking shut silenced her. Without loosening his arms, he pointed his chin toward the front seat.
“This timing is rather inappropriate.”
As if satisfied that was enough, he leaned back, eyes closing.
Treating her like a petulant child made her face burn.
‘He’s still the same.’
Kayla wrinkled the tip of her nose and turned her gaze back to the window.
She stared at the hazy reflection of her own face, then offered the duke a quiet, knowing smile that held no real warmth.
The naïve bishop you once knew is gone.
***
The car pulled into Sutherhall City, the wealthy extraterritorial port district on the outskirts of Duncan. Kayla, who had only heard of the place, pressed her nose to the glass, devouring the view for the first time.
The air itself seemed cleaner here, as though the absence of factories made it so.
Sutherhall City, nestled along the coast, was the financial heart of the Hasper Empire—and of the entire Norman continent. It was a city where extra-territorial rights were granted, where the empire’s most significant fortunes converged.
That was why patrol cars were so conspicuous. Every one flew a deep navy uniform instead of the usual police gray. These were the private security personnel hired by Duke Nigel, a company known for serving Sutherhall City alone.
‘Perhaps this place really is the duke’s own domain.’
The car turned onto a street lined with grand mansions and finally came to a halt at the very end, where the mansion faced the hill.
The gatekeeper snapped to attention and opened the door. Nigel passed him without ceremony and spoke shortly.
“To the study.”
Peter Hausen, the middle-aged butler who had come to greet them, stood at attention. Nigel gave him a kindly smile as he passed.
“Welcome. I am Peter Hausen.”
“Kayla Moss.”
While Nigel ascended the stairs, Peter stepped ahead of her, guiding her down the first-floor corridor.
The room she was shown was a study attached to a small antechamber, its high ceilings bathed in light from long, narrow windows. The room felt less like a place of solemn study and more like a luxurious library, where one could simply relax.
The radiator’s warmth combined with the scent of dew-kissed grass outside eased the tension in her nerves.
A single armchair with a large cushion faced the dormant fireplace that the duke so often used.
Kayla removed her hat, placing it on the long sofa, and stood before the towering bookcase that filled an entire wall.
Even a cursory glance revealed that the duke’s interests ran deep—across multiple fields. Leather-bound tomes on architecture and religion, multilingual books, and volumes that even the national library would not possess.
“Is this a professional interest?”
The duke’s voice made her start.
He had changed into a simple black sweater with a drawstring, paired with tailored slacks—comfortable, unpretentious, and utterly at ease.
“I apologize.”
As if indulging in a private game in a room that did not belong to him, she blushed and withdrew her hand from the books, stepping back.
Peter set down a silver tea service on the long, oval mahogany table and lifted the lid.
When she saw the small, delicate cake no more than two fingers thick, Kayla felt a pang of hunger despite the awkwardness of the situation. She had eaten nothing all day.
“It’s Pashuka. The first cheese made with fresh milk of the year, baked this morning. At this time of year, the head chef’s special dish.”
Following Peter’s invitation, Kayla sat on the sofa. She broke off a piece of the almond-dusted, moist cake with a fork and tasted it.
The sharp burst of cheese met with the bright tang of lemon, sending her saliva flowing.
‘Delicious!’
Overcome by sudden delight, she smiled for the first time all day, lifting her head—only to meet the duke’s steady blue gaze.
For a moment surprised, she saw him turn away, striding toward the display case. His earlier intense stare had vanished, replaced by polite distance. Kayla was left bewildered.
“I’ll have the kitchen prepare a portion for you to take when you leave.”
While Peter poured tea and stepped away, Nigel lifted the half-filled glass of amber liquid from the display case and approached.
He pulled out the chair opposite, stretched his long legs, and settled in with a relaxed posture, setting the glass on the low table.
As he sipped the liquor, curiosity got the better of Kayla. She swallowed the last bite of Pashuka and unfolded one of the tabloids.
[Duke Nigel’s Mistress, Interrogated by Police.]
The thick headline of the first page caught her eye at once. Beneath it was a large photograph.
Fortunately, the woman in the black-and-white image was wrapped in a black cloak and a hat, obscuring her features.
Yet the duke’s arm around her shoulders, and the mention of Basil’s murder beneath it, was enough to confirm that this was no idle rumor.
She hurriedly turned to the next page.
The photographs were no longer the issue.
[Kayla Moss. Witness to the Basil Murder Case… or Suspect?]
[Duke Nigel Conceals His Mistress]
The vicious headline naming her—along with the malicious tone—left her stomach churning.
Her eyes widened in disbelief, the air suddenly thick with tension.