“If it weren’t for that, neither I nor the Count would have to be so tiredly entangled like this.”

Ibi turned to look at the Count with a light grumble.

“Thanks to this, Count, you even have to act as my nanny. What should we do about this?”

At Ibi’s playful self-deprecation, the Count glanced at her. Then, as usual, he responded coldly.

“Have you ever given me a chance to act as a nanny?”

“Well, I’m past the age of needing a nanny.”

“Yet you still get scolded by the butler.”

“Hmm, that’s a painful point. I’ll overcome this problem soon.”

Ibi cheerfully promised.

Someone else might laugh at this cuteness, but the Count’s face remained as cold as if he wore a mask. Moreover, he kept punching his own chest repeatedly as if something was bothering him.

As a result, Ibi, who had tried to lighten the mood, only felt uncomfortable.

Initially, Ibi wanted to be alone. When the Count came to visit, her ‘Ugh, an intruder’ reaction wasn’t just a joke, but sincere.

Still, since she had to get along with the Count, she kindly offered him a seat beside her, but the Count kept acting coldly as if he had been dragged there against his will.

“Count, you can just go in. I’m more comfortable being alone too.”

So Ibi, unable to bear it anymore, said.

“I know you’re dedicated to your duty, but there’s no need to go through unnecessary trouble.”

“If you know I’m dedicated to my duty, why don’t we compromise at this point?”

“Compromise?”

“Since you’ve reduced the Marquis to that state, it seems you’re already unfit to become a saint anyway.”

But the Count still spoke mischievously, and finally, veins popped on Ibi’s forehead.

‘I wondered why this person wasn’t leaving…’

It seems he wanted to say this.

To say something like, you’re no longer fit to be a saint, so listen to me.

As the Count said, Ibi’s chances of becoming a saint had once again become slim due to Cassel’s change of heart.

This was a fact known to everyone who participated in the Wisteria Festival, but Ibi was upset by the Count’s insensitive remarks. He even acted as if he had been waiting for Ibi to fall into trouble.

“I forgot. You’re hoping for my frustration. You must be happy that things turned out as you wanted.”

“Not particularly. There’s no joy or sorrow in duty.”

“You should be happy. This is also the result of your efforts, Count.”

“So my efforts made Cassel Montra look down on you. I don’t agree, but feel free to blame me if you want.”

Ibi was at a loss for words at the Count’s cold mockery.

This Count, true to being someone who didn’t need to mince words, had a talent for saying unnecessary things that grated on people’s nerves.

Saying that Cassel Montra looked down on Ibi Ariate was exactly that. While this was also a fact known to everyone, it was something much better left unsaid to Ibi.

Ibi bit her lip, staring at the Count, pained by those words.

But the Count, sitting with his legs crossed, stared straight ahead, ignoring her gaze, and his elegant posture irritated Ibi even more.

“So what are you trying to say? That since becoming a saint is out of the question, I should just obediently listen to you now? That you’ll take care of me as promised, so I should just quietly tell you what I want?”

Ibi, her temper flaring, demanded of the Count. Having just beaten up that Marquis bastard, Ibi’s voice was more challenging than usual.

So it would have been natural for that arrogant Count to flare up in response, but for some reason, he didn’t even bother to reply.

This made Ibi feel ignored, and she bit her lip in frustration.

The more she thought about it, the more upset she felt. It was clear jealousy, but the fact that Cassel Montra, who had looked down on her, was rather a laughable opponent to this man also freshly annoyed her. So to this top predator, Ibi must also be a ridiculously insignificant being.

Just thinking about it made her uncomfortable. Ibi glared at his profile for a while, then deliberately spoke cheerfully.

“Alright, you said you’d guarantee the life I want, right? Then I’ll tell you, believing that you’ll fulfill your duty, young master. I want to become the Grand Duchess.”

At Ibi’s mischievous demand, the Count’s mask-like face distorted for the first time. He looked at Ibi as if surprised and asked in a low voice.

“Are you serious?”

“No, it was a lie intended as provocation, but it turned into self-deprecation instead. I don’t want a brother-in-law like you, Count.”

But before the Count could properly interrogate her, Ibi confessed the truth. Then, with her face red, she hit her own knee and vented her frustration.

This damn curse!

Ibi bit her lip in frustration and embarrassment, having her true feelings exposed while trying to put on airs.

Meanwhile, she felt a slight tremor on the bench. Looking to the side, she saw the Count covering his mouth with his hand, pretending not to laugh while actually laughing.

‘Don’t laugh!’

Ibi barely restrained herself from shouting this out loud. Instead, she glared at the Count from the corner of her eye, grinding her teeth involuntarily.

‘Should I just suffocate this person too?’

Like she did to Cassel Montra. It would be so satisfying to knock him down and stomp on his back with her foot.

A sweet impulse tempted Ibi, but instead of giving in to her desire, she composed herself. No matter how reckless she decided to be, she couldn’t attack the Count. To be honest, she feared the consequences.

She had finally been holding a victory toast, only to be interrupted and now having to swallow this humiliation. Feeling wronged, Ibi hugged her knees that had been crossed.

She thought about just leaving. But she didn’t want to appear as if she was running away from the Count. So as she stubbornly sat there, she suddenly remembered what happened in Bis.

The night she first met the Count in the two-story house in Bis, he had acted just as arrogantly and annoyingly. And Ibi had tossed and turned all night, regretting not having slapped the Count’s cheek.

Recalling that incident, Ibi didn’t want to repeat the same regret, so she opened her mouth again.

“You said you’d do anything for me, but I guess becoming the Grand Duchess is off-limits again.”

“It’s not something you really want anyway.”

“What I want and what I decide are separate things. Becoming the Grand Duchess is no problem even with a disobedient brother-in-law.”

“The position of Grand Duchess is not such a comfortable one. I wonder if you’re saying this knowing what the Laurel Grand Duke’s family does.”

“So you’re saying it’s not possible?”

“I’m saying there’s no need to even bring it up.”

“Can’t be a saint, can’t be a Grand Duchess, your conditions are quite picky. Just be honest. Are you saying I don’t know my place, thinking of entering the Grand Duke’s family?”

When Ibi snapped in a grumpy voice, the Count looked at her again. But this time, Ibi pretended not to notice and avoided his gaze.

Even though she avoided his gaze, she could clearly feel the Count glaring at her fiercely. So Ibi endured, covering her anxious feelings with anger.

After a while, the Count asked in a subdued voice.

“Did my words sound like an excuse?”

“No, they didn’t sound like an excuse. They sounded like an order.”

The answer came out automatically even though she wanted to ignore it.

Annoyed by that too, Ibi buried her chin in her tightly hugged knees. Then she built the walls of her heart, already solid, even higher.

And Sion, realizing that Ibi was in a terrible mood, was cursing himself and the whole world with an even more miserable feeling.

‘Damn it.’

Sion barely restrained himself from spitting this out.

Then he secretly watched Ibi, who was curled up as if facing a wall, pretending not to care.

It’s really a meaningless thing to say, but an even more meaningless excuse since he wasn’t going to say it out loud, but Sion didn’t mean for this to happen.

He didn’t want to anger Ibi with unnecessary arguments. He had no intention of picking a fight by mentioning the saint in this situation. But things had turned out this way in an instant.

Sion was already feeling self-loathing for having crawled out here. On top of that, Ibi kept saying he wasn’t needed and should go back, and she even said it in such a considerate way that he ended up retorting sarcastically out of exasperation.

After exchanging words back and forth like that, Ibi became completely angry, and Sion found himself suffering from a very unfamiliar pain.

It was the pain of feeling self-conscious, something he had never experienced in his life.

Sion experienced emotional instability for the first time in his life because of Ibi, who was silent with her face buried in her knees. He couldn’t bear this atmosphere; it made him anxious.

Moreover, as soon as he realized this, his towering self-esteem also started doing a sword dance.

Anxious? Who, me?

What nonsense. There’s no one in the world who can make Sion Laurel feel self-conscious. There never was in the past, isn’t now, and never will be in the future.

Sion’s pride was outraged by this ridiculous situation. So he cleared away all his confused feelings and spoke in a more stern voice than ever.

“…I wasn’t giving an order but stating a fact, but if you felt that way, it seems it was my mistake.”

He admitted his mistake, lowering his tail in a truly stern voice. But Ibi pretended not to hear those words.

“If you really want to enter the Grand Duke’s family, we can prepare as soon as tomorrow. Although becoming the Grand Duchess is out of the question.”

Even when he added this to clear up the misunderstanding, it was the same. Ibi still said nothing, and Sion, feeling somehow more impatient, spoke almost pleadingly without realizing it.

“Honestly, you don’t seem to care much about being a Grand Duchess or entering the Grand Duke’s family, is there any need to argue over something like this?”

“Then should I just unconditionally listen to what you say without even doing this much, Count?”

Finally, Ibi answered. Of course, it wasn’t Ibi’s will, and even that was in the form of a retort, as if in disbelief.

And hearing Ibi’s answer, Sion suddenly realized why this argument had started.

Ibi didn’t trust Sion at all. That’s why she deliberately mentioned becoming the Grand Duchess to test him. She treated him like someone who would throw her leftover bread while pretending to take care of her, waiting for him to kick her off his table.

Faced with this solid distrust, Sion felt heat rushing to his head.

As expected, Ibi was looking down on him greatly. She was doubting, distrusting, and guarding against him, completely unaware of how much time he had spent and how desperate he had been for Ibi Ariate, whom he had never even met.

But Ibi needed to trust. If not Sion, then at least that man who had entrusted Ibi to him, she should trust more than this.

Sion, feeling a tightness in his chest as if he had swallowed molten lead, unconsciously muttered.

“I understand if you can’t trust me, but can’t you at least trust the person who entrusted you to me?”

“Why?”

Then Ibi answered again.

“Why should I trust someone who abandoned me? If they left like that, it’s over, so why are you telling me to trust them again now?”

Ibi’s voice asking this was neither cold nor twisted. It was merely expressing doubt transparently.

Ibi sincerely thought that way.

So Sion felt as if a part of himself was turning to ashes and crumbling.