The act of carrying the ring wasn’t merely about handing it over to him directly. Among the myriad of ornaments, a ring carried a profoundly special significance, especially when given to someone one was dating. Rings, after all, served as symbols of engagement, marriage, or commitment as a couple. He sensed that a certain degree of mental readiness would be required before he could present it.
Their relationship, in truth, remained ambiguous. At least, that was how Jeha perceived it.
Undeniably, they had engaged in some rather intimate acts, and he had even heard what amounted to a confession from Hereis. They had also pledged a future, where Jeha would claim his body and soul following the contract’s fulfillment. Yet, these commitments were invariably entwined with the terms of their agreement. Jeha remained uncertain if a genuine romantic bond could flourish between them without the binding force of a contract.
‘Perhaps a little more time, then once I’m certain…’
Jeha mumbled to himself, his fingers idly tracing the contours of the ring in his pocket.
The mansion’s interior, save for Jeha’s bedroom, had been a hive of activity for days. Paimon and Zephyr were equally engrossed in their tasks, meaning Kkamangi was Jeha’s sole constant companion.
Paimon and Zephyr appeared to be orchestrating a complete renovation of the mansion. As Jeha rested his chin on the bedroom windowsill, he observed an endless procession: old furniture and fixtures being carted out, while new ones were continually brought inside.
Jeha’s personal quarters were no exception to this grand transformation.
While his bedroom underwent its transformation, Jeha was relegated to the study; subsequently, when the study was revamped, he was forced into the drawing-room. Each newly refurbished space—the bedroom, study, and drawing-room—now emanated an ambiance remarkably akin to the interior of Belgarga Castle. Jeha found himself quite content with the outcome.
Lounging on his new bed, Jeha repeatedly read Hereis’s letter, his gaze lingering on each word.
It was a letter of gratitude from Hereis, who had received the ornament delivered via the merchant. He conveyed his profound satisfaction with the pendant, promising to cherish and use it throughout his life. However, the passage Jeha reread until it felt imprinted on his mind was the solitary line that followed.
[I miss you.]
That brief line appeared to have been penned with a touch more force than the preceding text. Jeha read and reread it, almost devouring the words, before eventually tracing the letters with a tender finger.
‘I miss you…’
That utterly conventional, succinct sentence made his heart melt into a soft, formless warmth. It reminded him of a friend, newly smitten, who would grin foolishly at texts from his girlfriend. Back then, Jeha had dismissed it as infatuation, but now, he recognized his own behavior was no different.
The desire to secretly glimpse Hereis each night, or to steal away to his room, was ever-present.
‘Should I look? Should I go?’
He would frequently toss and turn in bed, wrestling with the dilemma for what felt like an eternity before finally succumbing to sleep.
Having progressed to such an intimate stage, he felt that secretly observing Hereis without his knowledge would be impolite. However, visiting him would inevitably lead to a certain intimate atmosphere, a prospect he was trying to avoid. More than anything, he wished to cultivate a more ‘human’ relationship with Hereis until he felt an unwavering certainty about their bond. His intention was to pursue a conventional courtship, refraining from using the “cheat code” of his demon lord powers.
And just like that, another night slowly drew to a close.
****
True to his routine, Jeha awoke late, ate his meal, and then brewed a cup of tea using the leaves Hereis had sent. With every letter, Hereis included a small portion of tea leaves. This thoughtful gesture, seeming to implore him not to forget their shared moments, always filled Jeha with a quiet contentment.
Having finished his meal, Jeha finally commenced preparations for Miss Fanucci’s birthday party.
The tailor himself arrived with the ensemble Jeha was to wear to the party. Having waited since early morning, he personally assisted Jeha in dressing.
Even to Jeha, who possessed no discerning eye for fabrics, the garment was clearly crafted from an exquisitely luxurious and undeniably costly material.
“How does it suit you, Your Excellency?” the tailor inquired. “My assistants and I labored for several nights to craft this garment. I have meticulously embroidered the Belgarga family crest throughout the entire outfit with fine gold thread.”
Leading Jeha to a grand mirror, the tailor spoke. Jeha critically assessed his reflection, examining every detail.
While Jeha’s own appearance was rather unremarkable, the proper attire and accompanying accessories transformed him. He now exuded an air of opulence, even a subtle mystique.
Initially, the choice of black fabric, which wasn’t mourning attire, had given him pause. However, the exquisite gold embroidery, lustrous pearl buttons, and an amethyst pendant harmonized beautifully, creating a truly magnificent ensemble. It subtly retained his youthful charm while imbuing him with a suitable gravity, lending an air of seriousness that commanded respect and deterred any casual dismissal.
“It’s splendid,” Jeha remarked.
He admired his reflection, a genuine sense of awe in his voice.
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” the tailor replied, as if he himself had been complimented.
The tailor expressed his gratitude, as if the praise had been directed at him.
“You’ve worked hard,” Jeha acknowledged.
Addressing the tailor directly, Jeha offered his thanks. A surge of pride blossomed on the tailor’s face, seeing Jeha’s profound satisfaction.
With his preparations complete, Jeha paused at the threshold of his room. He opened the nightstand drawer beside his bed, retrieved the sapphire ring he had temporarily placed there, and slipped it into his pocket. He simply found comfort in keeping it close.
He ascended into the waiting carriage, and it was not long before their journey was interrupted. The central district, where Encarosha’s affluent nobility resided, was not extensive. In truth, the distance from the new Belgarga mansion to the Fanucci estate was remarkably short.
Disembarking from the carriage, however, presented a different challenge. A quick peek out the window revealed a lengthy queue of carriages lining the street. The process was slow: a guest would alight from the leading carriage and enter, then the next carriage would advance to the main gate. The time spent waiting within the carriage far surpassed the actual journey from the Belgarga mansion to the Fanucci estate.
Only after enduring an interminably tedious wait was Jeha finally able to alight from the carriage.
“It’s His Excellency, Marquis Belgarga,” Paimon announced.
Paimon, also impeccably dressed for the occasion, addressed the servant who was greeting guests.
While waiting, Jeha surveyed the Fanucci mansion’s magnificent main gate and the estate itself. Among the residences clustered in the central district, this three-story edifice undeniably commanded attention.
‘So this is the mansion where the Pope’s mistress and children reside,’ Jeha mused.
He murmured to himself, mentally bracing for what lay ahead. Doubtless, all of Encarosha’s upper echelons would be gathered to celebrate the Pope’s daughter’s birthday. Among them, the very instigator who had sought to assassinate Marquis Belgarga might well be hidden.
“Please, come in, Your Excellency Marquis Belgarga,” the servant politely invited.
The servant courteously began to lead the way. Jeha nodded, then stepped into the Fanucci mansion.
****
The instant Jeha crossed the threshold of the Fanucci mansion’s main entrance, he felt as though he had stepped directly into a scene from a grand film or drama.
Beneath dazzling, glittering chandeliers, elegantly adorned guests mingled in small clusters, engaged in conversation. The women’s attire, in particular, was exceptionally lavish.
The myriad jewels worn by the guests caught the chandelier’s light, creating a dizzying, shimmering display. Amidst the brilliantly attired throng, diligent servants moved purposefully, carrying trays.
“Marquis Belgarga has arrived!” a waiting attendant at the door bellowed.
The attendant’s loud announcement instantly silenced the previously boisterous interior of the mansion.
A deluge of eyes converged upon Jeha. Tense, he consciously tried to relax his posture. He had believed himself fully accustomed to his existence as Bellarossa, yet it seemed his identity as Jeha still clung to him quite strongly.
The silence, which had been absolute, gradually gave way to a soft hum of whispers. The gentle flutter of women’s fans could be heard from every direction. Guests gazed at Jeha, exchanging hushed remarks. Jeha found Paimon’s steadfast presence behind him unexpectedly reassuring.
“Oh my, His Excellency Marquis Belgarga has arrived,” a voice exclaimed.
A woman in a resplendent gown, pushing through the throng, approached. Dressed as vibrantly as spring itself, she was none other than Mrs. Fanucci.
“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Fanucci,” Jeha said.
Jeha inclined his head in greeting. Mrs. Fanucci, gathering the hem of her gown, returned the gesture with a graceful nod.
“The pleasure is truly mine to welcome His Excellency Marquis Belgarga,” she responded. “Thank you for gracing my youngest daughter’s birthday party with your presence.”
Having exchanged these customary pleasantries, Mrs. Fanucci gestured subtly to her side. A young girl in a pristine white dress then emerged from the surrounding guests, taking her place beside Mrs. Fanucci.
“This is my youngest daughter, Ainel,” Mrs. Fanucci announced, “who is celebrating her sixteenth birthday today.”
“Miss Fanucci,” Jeha acknowledged.
Jeha offered a slight bow to the young girl, now sixteen. Ainel, grasping the hem of her dress, curtsied in return.
Ainel, the Pope’s youngest daughter, bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Fanucci. This was particularly noticeable in her flawless, porcelain skin and her long, graceful neck.
“Paimon,” Jeha called.
Jeha summoned Paimon, who stood dutifully behind him. Paimon stepped forward, retrieved a flat box tucked under his arm, and presented it.
“I have prepared a birthday gift for Miss Fanucci. I sincerely hope it pleases you.”
As Jeha spoke, Paimon opened the box’s lid. A collective gasp of admiration escaped the mouths of both mother and daughter as they recognized the item within.
“Oh, my!”
“Oh, dear…”
Resting on red velvet was a tiara crafted from diamonds and pearls. According to the merchant, it was a piece exquisite enough to be passed down through generations as a family heirloom. Naturally, its value was astronomical.
The sight of the tiara in the box caused the women in the room to fan themselves more rapidly. The murmuring intensified considerably.
The tiara was a highly symbolic item. It was not merely an ornament that anyone with money could wear. Such pieces were heirlooms, passed down only in families with imperial or royal blood. Presenting such a tiara to the Pope’s daughter implied acknowledging the Pope’s household as being on par with royalty.