This Marriage Must End In Tragedy Chapter 6
Chapter 6 – A Breakwater Against Misfortune
“Here are the requested documents, sir. I’m sorry, the subject didn’t lead a particularly active life, so the file is rather sparse.”
“This is more than enough. Thank you.”
Damion smiled in satisfaction as he received the folder from his butler, Nouvel. Once the butler quietly exited the room, Damion opened the file.
Rain Arell.The woman had lived under that name for a year.
Her current residence: a shared apartment on Wart Street, located in the southern district of Saul. Her current place of employment is the estate of Viscount Ziden, also in the South, where she serves the Viscount, his wife, and their son and daughter.
Her financial condition: dire. She had even incurred significant debt to pay for the medication.
“The interest is higher than the principal.”
He knew it was hard to find a lender in a pinch, but she seemed to have fallen into the clutches of an especially predatory one.
Damion raised his eyebrows briefly but then casually flipped the page.
The file also included records from when she went by the name Ansi de Rubelsa. Who she had spent time with, what she liked, what kind of personality she had—it was all there. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he skimmed the lines.
The thought of using her brought him a twisted kind of pleasure.
“At last, I can collect my due, Colonel Rubelsa.”
His low murmur lingered in the room.
He recalled the colonel’s face—resolute, yet shadowed with fear—when the man had come to him with that plea.
“Save the Countess of Rubelsa. Save my wife.”
That had been back when Damion served under the colonel.
The colonel had spoken of his wife’s intent to throw herself into the Benue River. It wasn’t idle speculation—he had detailed exactly when and where it would happen.
Almost like a prophecy.
Frankly, Damion had been sure it was nonsense.
Sure, the country believed in many gods, including the main deity, Liento, but Damion saw them all as little more than constructs to offer spiritual comfort.
He regarded prophecy the same way—utter fantasy.
Still, a lingering sliver of doubt kept him from dismissing the story outright.
“If that’s true, sir… why don’t you go yourself?”
“I have a bad feeling,” the colonel had replied grimly. “I’m not sure I’ll still be alive by then.”
The colonel wasn’t one to speak frivolously. In the end, Damion had accepted the plea.
“I promise I’ll save the Countess. But you must not tell anyone else about this—not a soul. We have to minimize the variables.”
“Thank you. And if I’m no longer here when the time comes… would you look after my family? In return, I’ll grant you a portion of my estate.”
Damion had made sure to receive a written agreement for the inheritance in exchange for this promise.
But the colonel had died on the battlefield mere days before his wife’s suicide attempt. His estate had been seized in its entirety. Damion had no legal claim to any of it.
He wouldn’t receive the reward. The whole story had seemed too ridiculous to believe in the first place. And yet, the thought of breaking a promise made to the dead left a bitter taste.
So, Damion made his way to the Benue River in the capital.
And found that the colonel had been right all along.
A frail, middle-aged woman strolled toward the riverbank—then, without warning, hurled herself into the water.
With a sharp curse, Damion plunged in after her.
He dragged the countess ashore. Thankfully, she appeared physically unharmed—only her eyes were hollow, lifeless.
Seeing the light gone from those eyes sent a shiver down Damion’s spine.
He’d felt this terror once before.
People began rushing toward them, shouting in alarm.
Damion left the scene in haste.
Only then did the colonel’s words sink in. The secret he had spoken of suddenly made sense.
“Those of the Rubelsa line can see the impending death of their partners. If they act, they can alter the course of fate.”
“And what is the cost of such a gift, Colonel?”
Seeing death before it arrives. It was a fascinating concept. But every blessing demanded a price. Fate could not be changed without consequence.
“The price is… my own life. The choice is up to the individual. If they do nothing, then nothing changes. But if they try to alter the future, they will instinctively sense it… the approach of their own death.”
After returning from saving the Countess, Damion researched the life expectancy of the Rubelsa family.
They truly did die young. Every Count who had inherited the title, and even those who hadn’t, such as the sons and daughters of the lineage, all shared that fate.
Perhaps, Damion thought, he could claim the price the Count had left unpaid.
Ansi de Rubelsa. The Count of Rubelsa’s daughter. She, too, would have the power to avert her partner’s death.
At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than a possibility. Weighing the pros and cons, he hadn’t pursued her when she disappeared. It had felt like a missed opportunity, nothing more.
But a few months ago, amid a storm of bullets that seemed aimed precisely at him, Damion had realized something.
Someone within had used the chaos of the battlefield to try to kill him. And that someone had been none other than Cardian de Orphe—his brother.
“Cardian’s plaything.”
That’s what Damion had ever been in House Orphe.
To Damion, enlisting had been a convenient excuse to cast off that role. He believed that if he could vanish from Cardian’s sight, he might find a life of his own.
And so, beyond his brother’s reach, he began to build a foundation. He pushed himself to survive even without the Orphe name. He had begun to glimpse a sliver of freedom—something that might become real with just a little more effort.
But to Cardian, a toy that had lost its purpose was a toy to be discarded.
And what easier place to dispose of a man than the battlefield?
The soldier who tried to kill him confessed to being sent by Cardian, then took his own life. Not to bring justice to Cardian, but merely to ease his own guilt.
From that moment on, Damion could no longer trust his comrades. He couldn’t turn his back on any of them.
After a discharge that came far too soon, Damion returned to the capital.
Cardian had greeted him with a smile.
“Welcome back, Damion.”
Back to being my toy. That, too, was hidden in his voice.
At that moment, Damion made his decision.
He would ascend to the pinnacle of Orpheus—the height from which he could define his own worth with absolute certainty.
And for that, he needed Ansi de Rubelsa. He needed her ability.
He had to ensure that no one could kill him, even if he bared his claws. For his survival until the very end and to seize what he desired, she would be indispensable.
That woman, unaware of the true nature of her entanglement, must have believed she’d been thrown a rope of hope—a chance to save him. If she was born with that fate, then let her fulfill it—for his sake.
She would be his breakwater, shielding him from misfortune.
May this fleeting moment of peace I grant you be so precious that you would willingly sacrifice your life for it.
With quiet resolve, Damion closed the file on Ansi.
It was the morning of the day she was supposed to meet Damion again when Ansi ran into Lady Trish, the daughter of Viscount Ziden.
Trish called out to her as Ansi was heading out the back door to leave work. Ansi turned around and bowed her head.
“I’m going on a picnic. You’re coming with me.”
“I’m sorry, my lady. I have plans after work, so you’ll need to take another maid with you.”
At that, Trish’s expression stiffened. She crossed her arms in irritation and stared at Ansi with narrowed eyes.
But no explicit dismissal was issued. After a moment of pouting, Trish huffed and turned her head with feigned indifference, walking off toward the front gate.
“You can’t leave yet. Rain has to help with my picnic today.”
Her airy pale-yellow dress fluttered as she walked, chosen just for this outing. Despite the arbitrary command, her personal maid, already at her side, beckoned urgently to Ansi, motioning for her to hurry up.
Ansi didn’t sigh. She simply followed quietly, mentally calculating the time left until her appointment. Three hours. Still manageable. Rather than refuse outright, it seemed wiser to go along for now.
The picnic spot was a beach ten minutes away from the baron’s estate by carriage. While Trish strolled along the soft sands with a radiant smile on her face, Ansi laid out the refreshments neatly on the mat.
On plates adorned with delicate floral patterns, she laid out an assortment of fruits, sandwiches, and cookies, sorted neatly by type. Her efficient, unerring movements resulted in a flawless spread.
But when Trish returned, her brows furrowed instantly, and she let out an exasperated sigh.
“These are the cookies I hate. Didn’t you check before bringing them?”
Ansi hadn’t prepared the food. But the blame in Trish’s eyes fell squarely on her nonetheless.
She wasn’t surprised. This kind of thing had happened more than once before. She knew all too well that Trish was only lashing out, looking for an excuse to vent her irritation.
Ansi bowed her head out of habit, silently wishing for the moment to pass without incident.