Sister, I'm the Queen This Life (330 Chapters Left to Complete) - Chapter 305

Ippolito drew another circle on the calendar. A considerable amount of time had passed since Cardinal de Mare had left for Trevero. Yet not only had his father still not returned, there had not even been word that he’d departed Trevero for San Carlo.

His father couldn’t return until the conclave—held upon the Pope’s death—concluded, but this delay had occurred because Pope Ludovico stubbornly continued clinging to life, hovering between today and tomorrow.

‘Ah, can’t you just die already!’

He’d briefly entertained the thrilling fantasy that if his father became the next Pope, he himself would be the Pope’s son—but now, Ippolito didn’t even dare hope for something so grand. All he desperately wanted was for his father to come home. Living in this house without his father felt no different from eating and sleeping on a bed of thorns.

After hearing that Isabella had returned to San Carlo—he cursed that damn sister who, while locked in the convent, had fawned over him constantly calling him “oppa,” yet hadn’t even sent word when she escaped—he’d decided to ride the family’s finest horse to visit his sister at her new residence.

It wasn’t that he particularly needed to assert authority over Isabella anymore; his real aim was to impress his brother-in-law, Ottavio. But that damned half-sister Ariadne wouldn’t grant permission, no matter what.

“The horse is reserved exclusively for His Eminence the Cardinal and the master of the house.”

In the old days, he would’ve haughtily scolded her and immediately run to their mother to tattle, but nowadays, Ippolito’s luck wasn’t so good. He pleaded with his sister in what he considered a humiliating manner.

“Oh, stop being so uptight. Will the horse really wear out from one ride?”

Of course, Ippolito’s version of “humiliation” and “persuasion” differed somewhat from what ordinary people might consider persuasion.

“If an accident happens while I’m going back and forth, can you take responsibility for it?”

Despite being utterly spoiled, he was absurdly good at verbal sparring and never yielded an inch.

‘Ah, this damn unlucky girl…!’

For Ippolito, refraining from cursing her directly to her face was the very definition of “humiliation.”

“Hey, if the horse won’t do, then at least let me take the silver carriage with the family crest on it… It’s not like I’m driving it myself—the coachman will drive, so it’s practically the same as you riding in it…”

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