Save Me (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 16
“Don’t cry.”
Though Bianca’s sudden tears should have startled him, Gillian didn’t press for answers—instead, he gently wiped beneath her eyes and soothed her.
“You’ve only just gotten up and gathered your strength; you mustn’t overexert yourself.”
Good heavens.
Even his reason for telling her not to cry was unbearably kind.
Would he understand if she told him that his gentleness only made her tears flow harder?
She needed to stop soon—but the moment she realized she’d started crying, more tears welled up uncontrollably.
Bianca rubbed furiously at her eyes, as if they’d broken like a faulty faucet.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
She tried to gauge his mood, but through her blurred vision, he appeared entirely bathed in golden light—his expression unreadable.
“Why am I suddenly like this…?”
‘Far too vulgar to be merely seeking attention.’
The Etiquette Teacher had chastised Bianca, calling her tears a manipulative tactic.
‘How dare you!’
The Emperor and Crown Prince had been furious, deeming her tears an unpermitted act.
Thus, ever since she’d come of age, Bianca had never once cried in front of others.
Yet here she was, shedding such tears before Gillian.
Unable to stop them!
When wiping didn’t help, Bianca quickly covered her face.
“Just a moment…”
I’ll stop right away.
Beneath her palms, her ragged breaths and muffled whispers mashed together, escaping like a soft groan.
What should she do?
Should she clamp her mouth shut?
Or perhaps…
Bianca spiraled into panic.
Her thoughts grew so chaotic that she nearly bolted away recklessly—
when Gillian’s apology brought her back to calm.
“I’m sorry, my Lady.”
Startled by words she never expected, Bianca lowered her hands and looked up at him.
Her face was soaked, utterly ruined by tears that still streamed without pause.
Yet Gillian didn’t frown or scold her at the sight of her tears.
“Did I upset you? It was my fault.”
Instead, he apologized as if her tears were his own failing.
She hadn’t misheard.
Dazed, she simply stared at Gillian.
“I…”
“It was my fault.”
Gillian slowly reached out, as if asking permission, and gently brushed the corner of her eye.
What met her wasn’t a stern face or cold gaze—
only a touch as soft as downy feathers.
As she watched, spellbound, the tears she hadn’t yet shed vanished completely into his hand.
“It was my fault, my Lady.”
Her sobs and tears seemed to evaporate entirely at his apology.
“It was my fault, my Lady.”
Though he smiled faintly, Gillian’s expression was utterly sincere.
“Gillian…”
He’d always been this kind of man—
so tender he forgot his own station, so benevolent it defied belief,
so unconditionally devoted it defied all reason.
“Don’t cry.”
But this—this was beyond anything she’d ever seen.
Bianca remembered clearly how he’d reacted the very first time he saw her tears.
Hadn’t he asked her to stop because it excited him?
Back then, he’d lifted the corners of his lips in a smile so breathtakingly handsome it stole her breath—
making her flutter foolishly without even knowing her place.
Clearly, he’d had the leisure then to appear smugly composed.
But now, he was different.
Perhaps it would’ve been better if he’d smiled that same sly smile as when he left the Imperial Palace.
Now, without asking why, he bowed deeply, insisting it was his fault—his expression almost desperate.
Why…?
“Don’t cry. I’ll do better.”
Yet Bianca couldn’t bring herself to ask him why.
Because even as Gillian smiled while begging forgiveness, he looked unbearably pained.
‘It was my fault.’
At that whisper, like a spell, her eyes slowly closed.
“Something’s odd, isn’t it…?”
At their master’s words, the aides—who had been bustling about—froze instantly, their hands locked in place.
“What is it?”
“Termina.”
Izhar rested his chin on his hand, wearing an indifferent expression—but those aides who served him closely knew he was sharper than ever.
Each slow blink revealed and concealed jet-black eyes hidden beneath his long lashes.
“They may be ruthless, but they’re shrewder than anyone when it comes to calculations.”
Ten chests of gold.
Izhar’s lands held an inexhaustible gold mine.
Gold might have meant little to Izhar himself—but not to others.
Moreover, Izhar’s gold was of such high purity that it exhibited a unique softness, making its value unrivaled.
Thus, even a single chest of his gold was truly immense.
Izhar remembered the Emperor of Termina, who had acted as though he’d send Bianca off immediately for ten chests of gold.
It was Izhar Cartan who had refused.
Himself.
He’d feared Bianca, Cartan’s rightful bride, would seem as though she’d been bought with money.
He’d worried it might tarnish Cartan’s famed reputation as “the Golden.”
He’d wanted Bianca—the most radiant of all—to become a true Cartan.
So he’d waited an entire year.
As the ruler of a nation, there was no way he hadn’t known how Bianca Termina was treated.
A pitiful princess, born from a devoured empress, despised by her own father.
And yet, her worth was set at ten chests of Cartan’s gold?
No one would dare lay a finger on Bianca.
That wasn’t all.
In Cartan, it was customary for the groom to present a “betrothal gift” when coming to claim his bride.
The gift was a token of the groom’s respect and love for his bride.
And the groom in this case was none other than Izhar himself.
A man who possessed the abundant wealth of Cartan.
No one could possibly imagine how magnificently he would have prepared to welcome his bride.
The Emperor of Termina wasn’t a fool.
And yet he gave it up?
That perfect opportunity to sell off Bianca—whom he hated more than a thorn in his eye—at such a high price?
Tap. Tap.
Izhar’s fingers, resting under his chin, rhythmically tapped the armrest.
It was a habit he fell into when deep in thought—and also a tell when he was furious.
Inside the tent, all his aides held their breath, exchanging only glances.
After a few such silent exchanges,
the aide who had served Izhar the longest let out a small sigh and spoke.
“My Lord Izhar. I have something to report—please accept it.”
“Speak.”
Tap.
His fingernail struck the wooden armrest with a heavy thud.
Tap.
“The Crown Prince of Termina spoke no falsehoods.”
“……”
“However, there was something he neglected—or rather, chose not—to tell you.”
“What is it?”
How considerate of him.
As if a young snake could simply forget.
He must have hidden it.
Izhar twisted his lips into a mocking smile.
Tap.
His tapping grew slightly more impatient.
“They sent a marriage proposal from Termina to Duke Valroc’s house—and the Duke accepted.”
“So?”
Reciting such an obvious tale so tediously clearly meant a twist awaited him.
But right now, Izhar was in no mood even for that small suspense.
Cartan had gold, yes—but Termina had iron.
That was why Izhar had quietly withdrawn, despite losing his promised bride.
Because he absolutely needed that iron.
And yet they expected him to wait?
At his impatient urging, Salvar, kneeling before him, whispered,
“The name on the proposal was Bianca Termina.”
“So?”
“There is no royal named Bianca Termina in the Imperial Registry.”
“If Bianca Termina isn’t royalty, then what is she?”
What nonsense is this?
Izhar raised one eyebrow.
Though Salvar must have seen his displeasure, he didn’t explain clearly—instead, he even smiled faintly.
“My Lord Izhar… Princess Bianca was erased from the Imperial Registry a month ago.”
Izhar, who had been lounging indifferently across his chair, shot upright as if spring-loaded.
“Not a princess?”
“They likely removed her, assuming she’d be killed by the Duke.”
Aside from using her as bait to control the monstrous Duke, perhaps it was also their arrogance—refusing to let ‘Valroc’ set a precedent of harming ‘Termina.’
Izhar crossed his arms and said nothing.
“……”
If Bianca were murdered, she’d vanish without a trace.
A dog’s death.
No one would dare inspect the Imperial Registry, so the Valroc Dukedom wouldn’t know.
Termina could exploit this incident to perfectly manipulate Valroc—so even forfeiting ten chests of gold and Izhar’s betrothal gift wouldn’t be a losing deal.
“But… Bianca Termina—no, Bianca—is alive and heading north…?”
Muttering to himself, Izhar turned to Salvar again.
“Who knows of this?”
“A month ago, the Head Steward of the Imperial Palace fell down the stairs.”
“He’s dead, then.”
Salvar bowed deeply.
An interesting tale, certainly.
But that was all.
It was fortunate for Valroc that he hadn’t fallen into the trap laid by those schemers—but for Izhar, who’d lost his bride, it meant nothing.
“Ah…”
What luck he has.
Izhar slumped back into his chair, his expression once again indifferent.
Should I have casually mentioned what betrothal gift I’d prepared for Termina’s vipers?
No matter how he thought about it, his irritation wouldn’t fade—and a sense of regret kept creeping in.
Izhar still remembered the Empress Dowager’s whisper:
‘Your Majesty, you must take a daughter of Termina as your bride.’
‘Has the rumor of the Empire’s greatest beauty stirred your mother’s heart? The daughters of Cartan are as lovely as flowers, too.’
‘Your Majesty, could it truly be for such a reason?’
The Empress Dowager smiled, her eyes gently crinkled.
Decades ago, she’d been so beautiful she was called “the Star of Cartan”—and even now, with silver threading her hair, her beauty hadn’t faded.
If anything, time had added maturity to her grace, making her even more noble.
Raised with such a woman as his mother, Izhar had found no one worthy of his heart—even long after coming of age.
That was why he’d assumed his mother’s sudden mention of Princess Bianca was merely because she was “the Empire’s greatest beauty.”
But his mother’s words had meant something else entirely.
‘Long ago, the Archbishop of Termina referred to the princess as “the one awaited through countless ages.”’
‘I’ve also heard rumors the Archbishop of Termina has gone senile.’
‘Now that’s a joke.’
The Empress Dowager, making a face as if she’d just heard a distasteful jest, gently patted Izhar’s hand.
‘Bring her to me before the rabble realizes, Your Majesty.’
Smiling sweetly, the Empress Dowager was breathtakingly beautiful.
And indeed, the Princess Bianca he’d met was as stunning as the rumors claimed—no, even more so.
Her ethereal beauty was so enchanting that even Izhar thought he wouldn’t care if the prophecy turned out to be false.
“Hmph…”
So this irritation—was this why?
Regret over losing, for the first time in ages, a face that truly pleased him?
A beauty rivaling a princess was rare indeed—could Duke Valroc really have taken her as his bride…?
Just as Izhar let out a faint, dismissive chuckle at his own idle thought, his expression suddenly hardened.
“Salvar!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“The Duke signed the marriage proposal sent by the Imperial Household, correct?”
“Yes.”
At Salvar’s immediate reply, Izhar let out a sharp laugh and shouted,
“This marriage is invalid!”
Male lead reborn without memories — but he still falls for her.
The person he finds displeasing in this life turns out to be his cherished wife-master in previous life…
Xie Zhi and Fang Xianxing who had known each other for less than three days through a blind date sat in the same car in front of the civil affairs bureau. They had a disagreement and failed to get married.
Xie Zhi immediately took out his phone, slid through his contacts, and randomly selected the next marriage candidate.
The woman snatched his phone and hung up. Looking at his phone wallpaper, she awkwardly changed the subject: “An ancient painting, eh? It looks pretty good, it’s just that the person in the painting looks a bit like me.”
When he heard this, he sarcastically mocked her for being so delusional, completely unaware that, the person in front of him was the reincarnation of Wen Ru, the famous prime minister of Yuan Shun whom he most admired…
The female CEO who doesn’t want to get married with a divorce agreement in hand × The male archaeological researcher who will only get married if he’s sure he can get divorced
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