Eventually, the Female Lead Ran Away (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 12

Deborah was flustered.

‘Why are you so surprised? Are you upset that a subordinate is setting conditions?’

Considering Zen’s personality, that was entirely plausible.

But contrary to Deborah’s expectation, Zen didn’t mind at all that she had set conditions for him. In fact, he found her intriguing—this woman who dared to state terms right before him.

The reason Zen’s heart lurched was because those words slipped from her lips again—words about leaving, about stepping away from his side.

“Mr. Baker?”

Breaking the prolonged silence, Deborah cautiously called out his name.

At the sound of her voice, Zen’s wide eyes twisted in distress.

He knew. She was saying she’d leave him without a second thought. She couldn’t possibly imagine that such words might wound him.

‘Was it like that back then too?’

Back then, when she’d vanished without a word—was it like that too?

Memories of his past self—a wretched, humiliated, abandoned creature powerless to do anything—tightened around his throat.

‘Damn it.’

By now, the lingering scent of cigars had completely vanished. A chilling wind blew in relentlessly, yet cold sweat beaded on Zen’s pale face. Puzzled by his strange state, Deborah called his name once more.

“Mr. Baker?”

Her voice wasn’t urgent; it was gentle, like a hand offered to someone lost.

“Very well. I’ll accept all the conditions you proposed.”

Zen spoke sharply, his teeth bared like a cornered beast, his face still ashen.

These were precisely the words Deborah had wanted to hear—yet she still had to suppress her bewilderment.

The Zen she knew would surely have rattled off excuses like demanding a new interview fee or citing his precious time, subtly coercing her as he always did.

‘So docile?’

Deborah asked with a faint smile.

“You may read through the documents before replying.”

“Ha. No need. How grand could your conditions possibly be? At best, they’re only as impressive as your imagination allows.”

As soon as he said it, Zen wore a look of regret and stole a glance at Deborah. Normally, he’d make far harsher remarks without batting an eye—but this time was different.

“Thank you for accepting my requests.”

Had Deborah’s expression been blank, it might have seemed she was swallowing offense. But instead, she beamed warmly.

“I apologize for taking up your valuable time. Please call for me whenever you need me.”

Deborah bowed slightly and turned away. The documents still lay scattered on the floor, yet crossing over them felt easier now than it had upon entering.

“…….”

Zen stared fixedly at Deborah’s retreating figure until she vanished from sight, then covered his eyes with his hand.

“……Damn it.”

A sigh, laden with heat and exhaustion, warmed the chilly study.

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Among the Grosian population, pure nobles—excluding the bourgeoisie—accounted for only about 5%, and among those nobles, fewer than 1% belonged to families capable of stably managing their assets.

The House of Duke Verrain was a family claiming legitimacy among nobles’ nobles.

They possessed a lineage older than the current dynasty, held the empire’s sole ducal title, and were the only family in the kingdom untainted by foreign blood. They embodied Grasian identity itself.

Most people believed the House of Verrain had no weaknesses. On the surface, they appeared immensely wealthy.

The grand mansion in the capital, the lavish parties held periodically, the vast estates owned by the ducal family scattered across Grasia… Yet, when it came to whether the Verrain ducal house belonged among that elite 1% of nobles with stable asset management—the answer was no.

“…….”

Duke Verrain frowned as he reread the dossier on Zen Baker, the man who had just forced the sale of Zelaman. He’d read it over and over, but found nothing remarkable.

Born in Astryan. Though his inheritance from his land-owning grandfather wasn’t substantial, an investment in the wine business several years ago had miraculously amassed him great wealth.

‘One of his parents is Grasian—he’s a recent investor who relocated to Grasia.’

This man, with a background as ordinary as countless other bourgeoisie, had obstructed the Verrain ducal family’s business.

Of course, that bourgeois likely couldn’t even fathom he’d stood in the way of Duke Verrain—after all, the Duke had used a third party to intervene in the Zelaman venture.

“Zen Baker…….”

He had never seen Zen Baker’s face. What reason would Grasia’s one and only Duke have to meet someone like Zen Baker, who could barely show his face at mediocre gatherings open to the bourgeoisie?

Unless, perhaps, he were to receive a title—but a foreign-born bourgeois earning a Grasian peerage?

It was nearly impossible in proud, aristocratic Grasia. What madman would hand his only daughter to a commoner with nothing but money?

“Hmph…….”

The Duke exhaled sharply and tossed the dossier away as though discarding trash. Though this insignificant fellow had interfered this time, it wouldn’t happen again.

‘Such a thing simply can’t be.’

He reached for his cigar case, intending to dispel the sticky discomfort clinging to his body.

Just then, someone knocked on the door. The Duke’s hand froze mid-air.

“Father… are you… are you busy?”

His previously furrowed brow instantly softened.

“No, my child. What is it?”

[This is the timeline separator]

The moment Deborah returned to her room, a maid arrived to offer her breakfast.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll pass on breakfast.”

“Oh dear—you’re skipping your meal? Are you unwell somewhere…?”

The maid asked, eyebrows lowered with concern. Deborah quickly waved her hands in denial.

“No, it’s not that. I just couldn’t sleep well, and I’d like to rest a bit more.”

“Oh my! Then I’ll wake you—please sleep comfortably.”

“Could you wake me in three hours, then?”

“Of course.”

The maid drew the curtains and quietly left. Buried in cloud-like bedding, Deborah closed her eyes and stared blankly into space.

‘Come to think of it, I don’t even know the maid’s name.’

Now Deborah was no longer a guest. She was an employee—just like that kind, nameless maid. From now on, she shouldn’t expect such lavish treatment.

‘And I’ll have to say goodbye to this luxurious room too. I’ll need to mention it to Mr. Baker later…’

Now that she thought about it, Zen had looked truly unwell earlier.

[Ha. No need. How grand could your conditions possibly be? At best, they’re only as impressive as your imagination allows.]

That probably meant: your level is obvious—you’ve only ever bounced between maid work and factories.

Honestly, it wasn’t pleasant to hear—but it wasn’t chillingly offensive either.

‘For Zen Baker, isn’t that practically gentle?’

Considering Zen’s infamous reputation for spewing hellish insults that incited outrage in countless others, this was nothing. It barely stung—less than a splinter in the finger.

‘Anyway, thank goodness it worked out.’

In truth, Deborah had never told Lady Saint that she’d leave if Zen refused her terms.

In other words, Deborah had lied—using Lady Saint.

She’d feared a headache if Zen persistently demanded to know when such a conversation had ever taken place, so she was relieved it had all passed smoothly.

‘Still, I feel awful toward Lady Saint. But I hope you’ll understand, madam—just this much.’

Deborah clasped her hands tightly and silently implored Lady Saint for forgiveness. Then she surrendered to the drowsiness creeping in. She was exhausted—and more exhaustion surely lay ahead.

[This is the timeline separator]

Deborah dreamed for the first time in ages. Though “dream” wasn’t quite right—it felt more like a strange journey through memories, half-lost in sleep.

From the moment she was born, Deborah’s life had been marked by hardship.

Her father died in an accident before her birth, and her frail mother, after entrusting newborn Deborah to her younger sister, soon passed away.

Deborah’s aunt was poor. She already had five children of her own, income was dwindling, and earnings showed no sign of improvement. How could she possibly take on another child?

‘I can’t!’

So when Deborah turned three, her aunt sent her to an orphanage. Keeping her until age three and telling her about her parents—that was probably her aunt’s way of showing affection.

The orphanage Deborah entered was in poor shape. Children arrived constantly, dropped off with faint traces of guilt, while donations steadily declined.

Thus, the orphanage operated on a shoestring—saving every penny, cutting corners, running with factory-like efficiency.

Yet Deborah didn’t find life there purely agonizing.

Though warmth, kindness, and love were scarce, neither abuse nor favoritism existed. She couldn’t complain about her circumstances.

As young Deborah grew bit by bit, on an utterly ordinary day while gazing at the sunset, she suddenly realized she’d known this world even before her birth.

‘This must be the world from the books I once read.’

If someone asked how she knew this, Deborah couldn’t explain. She simply knew—just as one could believe in another continent across the sea without ever seeing it.

She must have read countless stories before. And in most of them, ordinary lives like hers were treated like grains of sand—dispensable, forgotten the moment they vanished, mourned by no one.

This place was likely no different—but that was alright.

‘There’s no magic, no dragons suddenly appearing to swallow me whole, and the chance of war isn’t high.’

Yes. She’d been chosen by a world that wasn’t so bad.

She couldn’t pinpoint which story this was, so she couldn’t predict what would happen next—but that was life. What use was knowing the future, anyway?

Deborah grew up contentedly and ordinarily. Though opportunities to learn were few, for some reason, she remembered much from her past life and quickly stood out as an exceptional child.

‘Since I recall knowledge from my previous life, it’d be nice if I also remembered who I was or what kind of life I lived.’

…Or perhaps not. Remembering too much might only bring pain—crying endlessly for people she could never see again.

In any case, the orphanage director wrote Deborah a personal recommendation. Thanks to that, at a young age, she traveled to the capital and submitted her resume to the Heather Family—a Geman lineage newly arrived in Grasia.

“An orphan. And never worked for another household before.”

Mrs. Heather, facing Deborah, gave a curt nod.