The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

“I have something to say. Can I have a moment of your time?”

Helene asked to speak, but the duke glanced at her with an icy gaze.
“I don’t have anything to say.”
His tone and expression made it abundantly clear—he had no interest in conversation and didn’t care to hide it.

As he brushed past her coldly, a few servants behind her let out muffled snickers.
Helene swallowed the humiliation and returned to her room.
'…So in the end, I’ll have to take care of it alone.'

* * *
From that day on, Helene and the duke entered a frigid cold war—speaking not a word to each other.
When Helene stepped into the bedroom, she noticed that nothing had been prepared. She called for a maid.

“Why haven’t you drawn the bath? And the bedding hasn’t even been made properly.”
“Your Grace, is that really necessary right now?”
The maid responded with a face full of irritation.

Helene’s face darkened with fury.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, His Grace doesn’t come to visit, so I figured it wasn’t needed.”

The servants, long aware that the duchess was effectively exiled to the back rooms, had begun to treat her with open disrespect.
Gossiping was just the start.
“She’s all show, calling herself a ‘princess.’ She’s nothing else. I can’t stand her stuck-up attitude.”

“You wouldn’t believe how picky she is. Made me redo her hair three times because she didn’t like the style.”
Some even indulged in dangerous thoughts.
“Don’t you think His Grace might be lonely? I mean, he’s got no one to comfort him.”
“Keep dreaming. He’s always at the Royal Club, hanging around with ladies of his own class.”

“Maybe he’s not into women? I could help with that—if he ever feels empty.”
With the Grand Madam and princesses away, no one was around to scold them, so there was nothing to fear.
Helene was now invisible in her own mansion—no one to talk to, no one to trust.

The very isolation she had hoped Cynthia would suffer was now reversed upon herself.
Left alone in the dim room, she stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror, filled with emptiness.
Her usually immaculate updo had unraveled into a loose mess, and her plain white nightgown made her look utterly unremarkable.

'So my whole life changes based on how one man treats me?'
For a powerless woman of royal blood, it was a bitter truth.
She was human too—of course she knew loneliness, understood solitude. Cynthia’s warning kept echoing in her ears.

“…As if I’ve ever not been alone. I’ll be the best, not as someone’s wife—but for who I am.”
Helene chided herself for her moment of weakness.
Her eyes gleamed with renewed ambition—the determination to rise to the top burned fiercely.

“That’s quite admirable.”
A sudden, unfamiliar voice made Helene whip around in shock.
“Who’s there?!”

Between the fluttering curtains and the open window, a figure stood.
Helene quickly yanked open a drawer, pulling out a self-defense pistol and aiming it.
The young man at the barrel of her gun raised his hands calmly, as if to soothe her. He was dressed in a sharp suit, with a coat thrown over his shoulders.

“Your Grace, please don’t test our product on me.”
“I asked who you are.”
“You placed a request, didn’t you? I’m a technician from Commedia dell’Arte. I’m here to serve as your loyal dog and do whatever you command.”

He politely handed over a business card.
He was from the black-market arms-dealing organization Helene had contacted.
“You’re a VIP customer, so you can request anything. As long as you pay, we do it.”

Despite his handsome face, charming smile, and polite manner—like a model employee—there was something off about him. Something dangerous.
The fact that he’d breached the duke’s heavily guarded mansion and entered through a window said everything.
Sweeping back his ash-tinged black hair, the man introduced himself.

“Call me Capitano.”
Capitano—from Commedia dell’Arte—was the name of a pompous braggart character in classic masked theater.
The company name, his alias—it was all a performance.

Strangely, he suited the role. Just as Helene thought that, he added:
“You’re looking for someone, correct?”
“Yes.”

Helene’s wary eyes tracked the snake tattoo on his wrist that disappeared up his sleeve.
He reviewed the details she’d provided and said,
“It’ll take about a week.”

“That long?”
“Well, I only work one day a week. And I never work weekends.”
…Could this ridiculous man really be trusted? He spoke like a male version of Cynthia.

Helene frowned in disbelief.
“Fine, just give me the details in writing and get out before someone sees you—”
“Your husband’s cheating openly, so what’s the harm?”

'How does he know that?'
Capitano, noticing the slight flicker in her expression, continued casually:
“Our information network is more impressive than you think.”

Helene remembered the factory explosion Cynthia had been caught up in not long ago—how she had gone out shopping and returned with an injury from the gun factory blast.
'The duke said it was a conflict between the Free Society and this group. Is it safe to be involved with such dangerous people?'
After all, this arms syndicate was founded by remnants of the fallen empire.

'But that was long ago. It’s likely new leadership has taken over by now… they seem to operate purely for profit.'
As Helene’s thoughts drifted, the man stepped closer and suddenly grabbed her hand.
He bent down and kissed her pale knuckles with a teasing smile.

His golden eyes glinted like a seductive black cat’s.
“If the lady is this beautiful, maybe I’ll work faster.”
Helene quickly pulled her hand away and narrowed her eyes.

She asked dryly,
“Can I make another request?”
“Of course. I belong to you for now—use me however you wish.”

After a brief pause, she spoke firmly.
“I want you to investigate the women my husband is seeing.”
“Understood.”

“I want to know if it’s just flings—or if there’s someone he truly cares about.”
Capitano stared at her, then curved his eyes into a lazy smile.
“I can promise you this much—whoever she is, she won’t be as beautiful as the duchess.”

With that final line, he turned and disappeared.
“…What a shameless way to do business.”
Helene looked down at the card he’d left behind.

Commedia dell’Arte – Sales Manager: Capitano
* * *
Sunday. Another volunteer day at the same orphanage as yesterday.

I got up early and went to wake Masera, who was asleep on the sofa.
“I won’t be able to go today. I have to head to Nox.”
He had to check in on the major development work that had now officially begun.

“All right.”
I answered as if I didn’t mind at all.
Masera sat up properly, smoothing down his tousled hair.

“…Would you like me to delay the trip to Nox?”
“No, it’s important. Go ahead.”
He stayed quiet for a moment, watching me—not being clingy like he used to.

“A soldier must obey his wife’s orders. So if you insist, I suppose I have no choice but to delay my trip…”
“You really don’t need to. Just take Diego or Dalia.”
At my independent tone, his eyes narrowed in visible dissatisfaction.

Funny. The roles seem reversed now. I smiled brightly.
“Take me next time, okay? I’m curious what Nox is like.”
“…Understood.”

In the end, we each set out to fulfill our own responsibilities.
“I won’t be taking you to the orphanage. My train schedule’s tight.”
“Okay.”

I left the house with him—even though he was clearly sulking.
But when he saw the scene in front of the staff quarters, his face visibly hardened.
“I heard the brigadier won’t be accompanying you today? Allow me to escort you.”

“I just happened to be in the area. Thought it would be nice to go together.”
Both the Duke of Recanosa and Major Rodriguez said this at the same time.
“I said I would take her.”

Masera, who had just a minute ago grumbled that he wouldn’t, now stated this with certainty.
Rodriguez I understood—he and I had always been emotional soulmates.
But what was the duke’s deal all of a sudden?
Was he changing political lanes now that the Nox project was guaranteed success?
Or maybe worried I’d spread rumors about that ambiguous forest scene?

“……”
I suddenly felt a sharp stare. Turning my head, I found Masera boring holes through me with his gaze.
“…Do you have something to say?”

“Not particularly. Just… don’t follow strangers, don’t go out alone, don’t smile or compliment just anyone…”
For someone with “nothing to say,” he sure had a lot to say.