100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 515: Chapter 514- Flashback of Past-Life~~ (0)

The candles in Heartfield Manor had been burning since dusk.

Three hundred of them, at least — suspended in iron chandeliers that the Viscount had imported from the southern provinces at a cost that made his steward quietly weep.

The grand hall smelled of warmed beeswax and imported wine and the particular kind of perfume that noble women only wore when they needed men to remember them.

Silk rustled. Laughter floated upward in careful, practiced arcs. Goblets clinked with the precise delicacy of people who had been trained since birth to make even drinking look like an art form.

The occasion was Elena Heartfield’s coming-of-age ceremony.

Eighteen years. The daughter of a Viscount, now formally entering the world of marriage contracts and social currency, her youth officially converted into a political asset. The banquet hall held perhaps sixty guests — all of them from the regional nobility, all of them important enough to have received a hand-delivered invitation and unimportant enough to feel genuinely flattered by it.

”The Heartfield estate has outdone itself,” Baron Crestwell was saying to nobody in particular, swirling his goblet with the satisfied expression of a man performing contentment. ”Truly. The floral arrangements alone—”

”Imported from the Lenne Valley,” Lord Maris confirmed, nodding gravely as if this were military intelligence. ”I asked the steward directly. Three days by carriage.”

”Remarkable dedication to aesthetics.”

”Viscount Heartfield has always understood the value of presentation.”

The compliments moved through the room like currency being passed hand to hand — each one inflated slightly from the last, each one received with a gracious tilt of the head and returned with equivalent warmth. This was the language of the regional nobility. Not words exactly. More like social transactions conducted through the medium of words.

Then the doors opened.

Not the side doors. The main doors — the tall, carved oak ones that the steward only opened for guests of consequence.

The herald’s voice cut clean through the ambient laughter.

”Count Redwood of the Northern Reach. And Master Viktor, ward of the Count’s household.”

The room didn’t go silent exactly. It more... paused. A collective inhalation, a recalibration. Heads turned with the kind of careful casualness that meant everyone was absolutely looking while pretending they were simply happening to face that direction.

Because Count Redwood was not regional nobility.

Count Redwood was the kind of man whose presence in a room immediately reclassified everyone else in it.

He walked in like he owned the floor he hadn’t yet stepped on — broad-shouldered, silver-streaked at the temples, with the easy authority of a man who had not needed to prove himself in some years and had consequently forgotten what the need felt like. His coat was understated. That was perhaps the most intimidating thing about him. He didn’t need gold trim.

Beside him, half a step back and to the left — the position of a ward, not a servant, the distinction carrying its own quiet weight — walked Viktor.

He was perhaps nineteen. Maybe twenty. Wedding-age, as they said in noble circles, that narrow window when a young man’s value in the marriage market was being actively assessed by every family with an eligible daughter. He was tall. Not imposingly so, but tall enough that his stillness read as presence rather than absence. Dark coat, simply cut. No excess ornamentation. His face was the kind of composed that takes years to build — not the blankness of someone who felt nothing, but the controlled surface of someone who had decided, at some point, that what he felt was his own business.

He looked at the room once.

A single, comprehensive sweep — the kind of glance that catalogued everything and betrayed nothing.

Then he looked forward again and simply stood there, beside the Count, while the Count surveyed the room with the warm, calculated ease of a man who was about to conduct business while appearing to attend a party.

The Viscount Heartfield was already moving toward them.

He was a broad man. Not tall — the kind of broad that came from good living rather than physical labor, with a face that had once perhaps been handsome in an average sort of way and had since settled into the particular expression of a man who had long ago concluded that the world owed him things and was perpetually in the process of collecting. His jaw was square, his nose unremarkable, his eyes carrying that specific calculation that lived just beneath the surface of every smile he produced.

”Count Redwood,” he said warmly, hands extended. ”What an honor. Truly, what an absolute honor. We are graced this evening—”

”Heartfield.” The Count’s greeting was pleasant. Warm enough to be civil. Brief enough to be honest. He shook the offered hand once. ”A beautiful occasion. Your daughter has grown.”

”She has, she has—” Heartfield laughed the laugh of a man who needed the room to relax. ”And she is eager to make your acquaintance properly. Both of you.”

He glanced at Viktor.

Viktor inclined his head. Exactly as much as courtesy required. Not a millimeter more.

’Measured’, every woman in the room thought simultaneously, watching him, attributing to calculation what was simply nature.

Then the Viscountess arrived.

She had been speaking with Lady Maris near the floral display — a conversation that had been going for approximately twelve minutes and had concerned itself entirely with the quality of the embroidery on Lady Maris’s shawl. When she heard the herald’s announcement, she had turned with the particular grace of a woman who had spent two decades learning how to move in rooms like this one.

The green dress.

It was not a young woman’s dress. It was not trying to be. The fabric was deep forest green — silk, heavy, the kind that moved with her rather than away from her, that caught candlelight and held it for a breath before releasing it. The neckline was modest by court standards. Everything else was simply... her. The width of her hips announced themselves with every step she took across that marble floor — a sway that was entirely uncontrived, the natural consequence of a woman built the way she was built, moving at the pace she always moved, utterly unaware that three separate conversations in the room had just quietly faltered.

Her hair was pinned up. A few dark strands had escaped near her temple. She had either not noticed or had decided it did not matter, and either answer said something about her.

She crossed the room toward them, and Viktor watched her come.

Not with hunger. Not yet. Not consciously.

He watched her the way a person watches a familiar painting they have passed a hundred times suddenly catch the light differently — a recognition, a small internal adjustment, something filing itself away in a place he didn’t have a label for yet.

’She is beautiful’, some quiet part of him noted. And then, because he was who he was, the observation closed itself off and he stood still.

”Greetings, Count Redwood.” Her voice was warm without being performative. She smiled — a real one, the kind that reached the corners of her eyes — and dipped in graceful acknowledgment. ”We are so glad you could make such a long journey. Truly.”