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“Don’t do that. How can you fire someone just for being honest?”
“Because they lack judgment.”
His cold tone sounded as if he were just as certain of Rose’s abilities.
She couldn't believe that this proponent of the "artistic theory of dance" possessed an infinite confidence that even she lacked.
Yet, she couldn't help the subtle feeling of pleasure that welled up inside her.
“Then try saying that to my mother. She always told me I was ordinary, that I was nothing special. Especially after my wrist started hurting,” Rose murmured in a whispering voice.
“That there was nothing special about me. That’s why she told me to marry you.”
Perhaps because she had heard it so often and had dwelled on it alone so much after her mother died, saying it aloud didn't hurt, nor did it make her feel depressed.
“So, the person you should actually resent might not be Avery, but my mother. She practically threatened me to get married,” Rose said jokingly.
She could now accept it with composure.
It felt as though those words weren't entirely wrong.
When there were women like Sophia Greenwood in the world, was there any reason she specifically had to play the piano?
Lying down, Ray lifted his gaze and looked at Rose silently. His expression suggested that something was strangely displeasing to him.
“I heard the late Mrs. Davis was very ill.”
“Um, yes. She was frail.”
“Then was she unable to go out often? Did she just stay secluded inside?”
“Well, she didn't go out much. Just the occasional walk?”
Ray let out a smirk as if he had expected as much, then placed her hand on his chest and closed his eyes, as if he were sleepy.
“If she had gone out often, your mother would have known.”
“Known what?”
“That it would be hard to find another strange woman like you. No matter how generously you look at it, you aren't ordinary.”
Unbelievably insulting words came from the man with his eyes closed.
“Go outside and see if there's another woman like you anywhere.”
“Honestly! What on earth is strange about me?”
As Rose flared up and her voice rose, the man opened his eyes slightly and chuckled, as if her reaction were an entertaining spectacle.
Rose contemplated hitting him with the hand resting on his chest, but the man, as if sensing this, held her hand firmly.
“It’s only because you haven't met any other Boltonians besides me.”
“I doubt that.”
A flat denial immediately followed her grumbling.
“Do all Bolton women play the piano as well as you?”
He asked, stroking her fingers.
She suspected he was doing this on purpose, knowing she was weak to praise regarding her piano playing, but her mood softened and her momentum faded as she took the words at face value.
“Some of them...”
“Do they all speak as carelessly and recklessly as you do?”
However, she was baffled again by his following words.
“You’re the one who speaks recklessly! After everything you've said to me.”
“I was simply matching my level to yours, Madam,” Ray replied smoothly in his characteristic teasing tone.
“Do other Bolton women throw things and swear well, too?”
“If you keep this up, I might throw something worse than a comb.”
Ray laughed again.
Without realizing it, Rose traced his lips with her finger as a smile leaked out. It was so strange to see a man laugh so often, and it was so pleasant to watch.
The impure man, who licked that finger with his tongue, looked up at her.
“Are you as funny as I am?”
“What’s funny about me?”
“I’m laughing, aren't I?”
His attitude was concise, as if that were explanation enough.
Rose shook her head at the man who was entirely self-centered. But what was even stranger was that she no longer found such a man simply obnoxious.
“You don't seem like the type who would cry easily, either.”
“What? I haven't cried once since I came here. I've never been much of a crier.”
With a slanted smile, Ray placed his hand on the inside of her thigh.
“I disagree.”
And then he kissed the spot that the gown barely managed to cover.
Rose strained to press her legs together.
“...Go away.”
“Why, are you afraid you'll cry again?”
At his mischievous words, Rose finally bent her knees, so that he could no longer use her legs as a pillow.
Ray, appearing not at all disappointed, pushed himself up and instead trapped her within his arms.
Rose, who had been leaning obliquely against the headboard, was pressed down onto the bed by his physique.
“You don't seem like you'd be good at singing, either.”
The man's voice, filling her vision, tickled her ears pleasantly.
“I don't sing, so what are you talking about?”
“No, I just know you'd have a talent for it.”
Rose thought once again that he was a man with excessive self-confidence; when on earth had he ever heard her sing?
Ray's lips descended to her neck.
“You sing just fine in bed.”
It was a low voice, but seeing the faint trace of a smile, it was clearly another impure joke.
Before she knew it, his lips had reached her breast. Through the thin gown, he took a full mouthful of her breast.
Every time he moved his tongue, the peak rubbed against the gown. Her senses heightened, and she instinctively pressed her thighs together.
“Don't hold it back; it sounds lovely,” the man murmured from below, as if he knew perfectly well that Rose was biting her lip to stifle the sound.
“...You're annoying.”
Ray, moving back up, chuckled and kissed Rose's lips softly.
“Trust me,” the man whispered, brushing aside her disheveled hair.
“Because there is no woman like you anywhere.”
Even his light tone, which sounded like a joke, felt unnecessarily tender.
As if he...
Rose couldn't even finish the thought. Even if it was just her own thought or a guess, it felt too ridiculous.
When she heard that he intended to push forward with the Dunsville development project, Rose was curious.
Whether it was a choice made solely for political gain, or if she played some small part in that decision.
In truth, it wasn't that she necessarily wanted a child.
If only there was something she could be sure of, in any form.
If there was evidence she could see and touch...
Rose struggled to find something in those blue, sky-like eyes looking down at her.
She knew very well why she was searching for such things, and the reason behind it.
Because I, I already...
Once again, Rose could not finish her thought. She deliberately ignored the sentence that felt as if it would complete itself on its own.
Because the moment the sentence was completed, she would be hurt. That was the lesson life had taught her.
Ray, looking down silently at the woman who had vowed to endure everything until she felt certain, spoke.
“Yuse, you come along too.”
It was an unexpected suggestion.
“Is that allowed?”
“I said let's go.”
As if that were enough, Ray cut her off, indicating that no further reason or explanation was necessary.
“It is a grueling schedule. We'll have to travel almost across the entire country. You won't survive if you keep eating like a baby bird.”
“Rather than that... wouldn't it be unhelpful for you if I go?”
“I don't think I'm so incompetent that I need my wife's help.”
The man, as solid as ever, answered in a tone devoid of any doubt.
“See it for yourself. It doesn't help to only see things through articles in your room.”
It sounded almost cold. But it was also true. She couldn't stay locked in this bedroom forever.
Ray began to kiss her neck, her breast, and her stomach again.
“The outside might be better than the newspapers.”
I wonder if that's true.
Feeling the man descend further, Rose thought blankly.
But the things she worried about didn't only happen in articles. They happened at every event she attended, and they had happened in the drawing room earlier today.
“Who said the Boltons were bad? I just said Rose is different.”
The sad sense of alienation she felt in the drawing room vanished now that she was alone with him.
However, the more comfortable this moment became, the more fearful all other spaces felt—every space that wasn't this bedroom or the piano room they shared.
Am I becoming weaker, or am I becoming stronger?
“Rose, don't think about other things.”
The sweetest voice in the world, the sweetest call, pulled her back down from a place that wasn't reality.
* * *
In the conference room where key members of the Conservative Party had gathered to establish a formal plan for the general election, a war-like atmosphere prevailed. It was as if they were facing the opposition party.
At the highest seat on the left side of the Central Office's main conference room sat Home Secretary Avery. Most of the members led by him were veteran MPs with graying hair or hereditary MPs from noble families.
At the highest seat on the right was Ray Crawford, and the members led by him were mostly young or from entrepreneurial backgrounds.
The Prime Minister, seated in the middle, let out a deep sigh and looked down at the meeting agenda with an expression of utter reluctance.
While the other MPs read the materials he had prepared with serious faces, Ray was leisurely thinking about a woman.
Unbelievably.
He was tired of feeling pathetic for the thoughts that intruded whenever there was a gap, as if they had been waiting. This wasn't just a one-time occurrence.
Since that night on the balcony when she confessed about her father, it had become an irresistible force.
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