MLS Chapter 30

But if it wasn’t love—he was still searching for another way to define it.

Until he found a clear answer within himself, Lorena had to remain his woman.

“There is something I must confirm with her personally. Until then, divorce is out of the question.”

“Then what exactly do you plan to do with the operation?”

“I’ve sent someone to Grant.”

“…To Vicenzo Klein?”

“Yes.”

To Lorena, that man was more precious than life itself.

If Vicenzo were taken hostage, she would have no choice but to return to Levantes.

A cold curve settled on Vaye’s lips.

“I don’t see a need to kill him. He’s a far more useful card in my hand while he’s alive.”

“……”

“So, for the time being, do not interfere. Family matters should be settled within the family. Don’t you agree, Your Highness?”

It was a warning—sharp as ice.

A command to stay out of it.

In the end, though Prince Davit’s expression soured with displeasure, he could do nothing but hold his tongue.

* * *

On the dawn of the first week of May, the area in front of the Klein residence was still swarming with reporters who refused to leave.

“Pulling another all-nighter?”

“You too? Come on, give me a break today. ‘Diario Informativo’ got the scoop last time. Have some decency.”

“Decency? In this field? The scoop belongs to whoever gets it first!”

Every time an article about the Duke and Duchess of Levantes was published, a month’s worth of papers sold out in a single day. Desperate for an exclusive, journalists had even started sneaking around Klein’s estate, photographers in tow.

But not all of them were there for news.

A short, stocky man with a protruding belly peered through a half-open window, his gaze filled with intent.

“No need to catch them in the act. Just one picture of Lorena Levantes’ face is enough.”

The most beautiful woman in Bessen.

Her photographs weren’t just valuable to women—ravenous men would pay handsomely for them, too.

Up until now, House Levantes had strictly prevented her images from spreading in the public sphere. But now that the couple was separated, this was the perfect opportunity.

“If I could catch her reflection in the glass, that’d be great. Even better if she’s in a nightgown.”

A single picture of the duchess could be worth an entire year’s salary.

And the more scandalous the image, the higher the price—exponentially so.

As he indulged in perverse fantasies, the journalist’s lips curled into a lecherous grin.

If he could sneak past the fence, he could get even closer to the window.

Just as he was looking around for something to step on, a shadow loomed over his bald head.

“Would you mind stepping aside?”

He instinctively tilted his head back.

The first thing he saw was a man’s collar, slightly disheveled.

And then—he got a clear view of his face.

The journalist gasped, swallowing hard.

Even with his tousled hair, the man looked as though God himself had calculated the perfect way for each strand to fall.

It was an unmistakable beauty.

The journalist hiccupped.

“M-Marquis, Your Excellency—! Hic.”

Miguel’s gaze sharpened in mild irritation.

“You’re quite lacking in manners.”

The journalist immediately shut his mouth, realizing his mistake.

There was no official title to properly address him, so most defaulted to calling him Marquis.

However, referring to him as Your Excellency to his face was a grave misstep.

He hated it.

There was still a well-known story circulating in Motrel—how, years ago, he had coldly told Prince Davit that if he had to be addressed that way, he’d rather be called by his name.

But how many people in Motrel would dare to speak his name so casually?

Miguel Ervatos Reyes de Pereira.

A notorious drinker and chain smoker, but that wasn’t what earned him the reputation of Motrel’s greatest libertine.

His scandalous reputation wasn’t built on his personal life or his relationships with women.

No—his temper was what truly made him infamous.

The incident where Miguel had mercilessly smashed a whiskey bottle over the head of a drunken troublemaker at Alborada was twice as famous as his refusal of formal titles.

“Lurking outside a lady’s home at this hour—isn’t that a bit improper?”

His cold voice landed directly on the top of the nervous journalist’s head.

It was difficult to tell whether it was a rebuke or just an idle remark.

“A stalker? Should I report you to the authorities?”

“T-That’s not…”

“Would you like to leave on your own, or would you prefer to be dragged out, Señor?”

“N-No! My apologies!”

The commotion outside seemed to seep through the open window.

From inside the tightly shut Klein residence, the sound of a lock being undone echoed softly.

A calm voice slipped through the slight gap in the door.

“Marquis?”

“Don’t come out, Lorena.”

Miguel’s response was indifferent, but his eyes casually swept over the cluster of journalists.

The short, stocky reporter felt a twinge of injustice.

She called him ‘Marquis’ too! Why is it just me?!

Just as he hurriedly gathered his belongings to leave, a large hand clamped down on the back of his neck.

“Leave your card before you go.”

“Ah—!”

For a brief moment, he thought he was about to be strangled.

Terrified, the journalist fumbled frantically with his jacket, pulling out a business card.

Miguel glanced at it, taking note of the newspaper, title, and name before nodding in satisfaction.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on your work, Señor.”

That is—if you’re still able to write anything at all.

With a deceptively friendly pat on the journalist’s plump shoulder, Miguel wordlessly signaled that he was now free to leave.

* * *

When Lorena met him again after three days, she wore a deeply apologetic expression.

“I’m sorry. Lately, there have been more reporters camping outside my house overnight.”

Miguel took a slow glance around the interior.

The Klein residence was a modest three-story townhouse. The wallpaper and tile designs were foreign, distinct from the usual Bessen aesthetic.

For the first time, he consciously acknowledged that she wasn’t from Bessen.

Her Bessenian, particularly the refined accent of Motrel’s upper class, was flawless—so much so that he had never noticed it before.

“I didn’t see any guards when I came in.”

“Oh, their shifts only last until midnight. From dawn to morning, there’s just one guard patrolling in rotation each night.”

Miguel frowned as he sat down on the sofa she had gestured toward.

“That’s hardly enough.”

“You should report them. They call it journalism, but who knows what kind of depraved fantasies they indulge in while lurking outside?”

“That’s true.”

Lorena nodded as if she understood.

“But they’re also useful to me. Every exaggerated, imaginative sentence they write only adds fuel to my cause.”

Miguel’s expression darkened.

“Do you really understand what I mean, Señora?”

“…Excuse me?”

“A woman living alone is easy prey for men who can’t keep their urges in check.”

“Oh.”

“Especially when she’s not only beautiful but also far too naive—lacking even the most basic sense of caution.”

Klein’s residence wasn’t even two blocks away from Delgado Street, Motrel’s infamous nightlife district.

This area wasn’t densely populated with residences, meaning security wasn’t reliable.

“Don’t let those bastards stalking your doorstep off the hook. And increase your number of guards. Two or three won’t be nearly enough.”

“Thank you for your advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Miguel narrowed his eyes.

She didn’t look like she was actually taking it to heart.

She had merely said she would.

Lorena took her seat across from him.

“I apologize for the late expression of gratitude, but thank you for coming at this hour, Marquis.”

She bowed her head politely.

Gone was the provocative woman who had stormed into Alborada just three days ago.

Now, she sat with her collar buttoned all the way up—composed, dignified.

She was the very image of the duchess that Bessen’s high society both revered and envied.

“And the photos… I appreciate them. They came out well.”

Between them, a wide table sat neatly arranged.

Steam curled from the spout of the teapot.

The plates were set with fresh fruit and unsalted nuts—light refreshments, carefully chosen to be easy on the stomach at such a late hour.

It was impeccable hospitality.

But considering that the man sitting across from her had now been officially cast as her lover—this reception felt…

Too formal.

Too polite.

She had been the one to seduce him first, and yet she was drawing the line now?

How shameless.

It made Miguel feel childishly resentful.

“I’m glad you liked them. I put quite a bit of thought into which ones would be best.”

Alborada was his kingdom.

Its corridors, lined with marble statues placed at precise intervals—its bartenders, cleaners, and attendants—every inch of it was under his watch.

He had orchestrated everything.

The photos being taken. The photos being retrieved.

All on his command.

Lorena offered a graceful smile of appreciation.

“I see. They looked incredibly real. You must have put in a great deal of effort.”

Miguel exhaled through his nose.

“That’s your response?”