A Gamble Called Marriage - Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Philippe, barely able to stand on his own, left with Charles supporting him. Once they were gone, leaving behind their seats, Gauthier took a sip of his freshly served martini and began to complain without even touching his cards again.

“This is so tiresome. He’s a wreck, lost his place in the line of succession, and still has the nerve to act all high and mighty because he’s the elder brother. Can’t we just get rid of him? Once I become Grand Duke, I should exile him somewhere far away where he won’t be seen. Any recommendations for a country?”

“America. They’re especially fond of outcast European nobles.”

Yves replied indifferently. His talkative half-brother clearly had no intention of focusing back on poker. Considering his track record, it seemed he was just using the lack of a good hand as an excuse.

Anticipating a lengthy tirade, Yves pulled out a cigarette. But no sooner had he taken a puff than Gauthier’s irritation burst forth.

“If we send him to America, won’t he end up on some ridiculous talk show spouting nonsense? Seriously, he should’ve just died during one of those surgeries. The fact that he survived is maddeningly inconvenient.”

Philippe had undergone numerous surgeries since childhood due to a pulmonary condition. Each surgery was life-threatening, with long recovery periods afterward. Naturally, during those times, official photographs prominently featured Felix, the second son.

Philippe never set foot in the military, an essential step for ascending the throne. A future commander-in-chief who had never experienced military life was unheard of. People’s faces betrayed their discomfort every time they heard his strained, breathless voice.

The world had long moved on from the significance of “blue blood.” In such a world, what kind of symbol would a sickly Grand Duke become?

Perhaps there wouldn’t have been any issue if Philippe had simply behaved himself. But as if to compensate for the time lost to hospitals and rehabilitation, Philippe had caused severe problems, leaving blue bruises like royal seals on the bodies of those he encountered.

After his final surgery, Philippe, for reasons unknown, renounced his position as heir. From the moment he bowed his head to his two-years-younger brother Felix, the hush money the ducal house paid to Philippe’s victims dramatically increased in scale.

At least, that’s what Mikkola’s reports to Yves suggested.

“Do you know what really pisses me off? He still seems to covet my position. The man who tearfully abdicated his claim as heir has the audacity to throw a tantrum when we don’t include a clause in the declaration stating that his descendants wouldn’t inherit the throne. If he has kids, their succession rank would still come after mine.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Felix snapped his fingers. A bodyguard immediately approached.

“Make sure the martinis keep coming. And my brother?”

“Attorney Duberge has safely escorted him to the presidential suite. He mentioned he would ensure the Grand Duke was asleep before returning.”

With the report concluded, Monaco’s elite security team moved to fetch another martini. Yves flicked the ash off his cigarette as Felix muttered.

“Charles is such an odd one too. He used to be a total womanizer, and now it’s all about Maël? And taking him seriously, no less. He hasn’t even said a word about it to me.”

Charles would glare daggers at Yves every time they crossed paths, his hostility barely veiled.

Today, too, he seemed smugly triumphant, clearly relishing Yves’ presence. It reminded Yves of a dog wagging its tongue while marking its territory—complete with the metaphorical trail of urine.

It was easy to guess what the golden-haired young man was imagining and what role Yves played in those fantasies. While imagination was free, its implications could be far-reaching.

As Yves silently contemplated this, Felix downed his martini in one go and chewed on an olive.

“Yves, I noticed you kept glancing at Maël during the tennis match.”

Did he?

Yves removed the cigarette from his lips.

Perhaps Felix had confused the sport. Yves had flinched more than once to dodge flying balls, but Maël’s swings were surprisingly precise at times. What stood out more was his inability to mask his boredom and irritation.

Toward the end, during the final set, Maël, as if resigned, finally showed his real skills.

Perhaps Yves had glanced at him a few times. It was hard not to when Maël’s expression shifted from exasperation to amusement as he began taking things seriously.

Yves stubbed out his cigarette and replied.

“Well, I do have eyes.”

“Eh?”

“Hard to deny he’s easy on them.”

It was a simple statement of fact. Whatever Felix found amusing about it, the drunken heir doubled over laughing.

“Ahaha! Wait, you liked Maël? You’re a step too late. Should I tell Charles to back off? I mean, I did save the Riviera for him, so he owes me that much.”

“More importantly.”

Their relationship, born of necessity, didn’t need to last. Cutting off Felix’s ramblings, Yves flicked a chip toward the table.

“You lost the tennis match, so pay up.”

“Ugh.”

Without looking, Felix tossed a pale blue chip worth 2,000 euros. He began mixing the messy pile of chips on the table with both hands, scattering a riot of colors across the green felt.

“Yves, that was ages ago. You should’ve said something back then. No point bringing it up now—it’s boring.”

He drunkenly wobbled, nearly collapsing. As Yves looked down at him, Felix swayed a couple of times before steadying himself.

“If you’re that disappointed, let’s make another bet.”

With cards and chips scattered, the space was too chaotic for any proper game. Just as Yves’ patience wore thin, the heir grinned.

“Let’s keep it simple. How about this? Guess how long Charles and Maël have been seeing each other. Whoever guesses closer wins.”

If the heir to the throne had the leisure to obsess over someone else’s love life, his position truly must have been dull. Yves, however, merely nodded in acknowledgment.

“Your choice first, Your Highness.”

Matching appropriately, winning appropriately, and using what I’ve extracted to secure advantageous ground—that was the work I had to do now. Yves lifted his whiskey glass and swallowed the lukewarm liquid.

“If Charles says he’s been seeing someone for a long time, then it really has been a long time. He was serious about it earlier, right? But I went to the Bahamas with him last summer, and we partied with women. If it didn’t start back then, let’s see… nine, ten, eleven… about six or seven months? Seven months! I’ll go with seven months.”

Could it even be called a bet if you already knew the answer? Yves still had a vivid memory of that homoerotic melodrama from back then.

“A year, wasn’t it?”

All he had to do was say it and win. It was simple.

There was a lot he could ask for. For instance, he could request an invitation to the banquet Lucien III would attend, a seat near the Grand Duke at the Only Watch auction, or during the upcoming Grand Prix. It was absurd to think that in their world, one could only secure a chance to meet through gambling at a poker table.

Still, an opportunity was an opportunity. And something easily obtained wouldn’t really be called an opportunity.

“Three months.”

Yet, despite knowing this better than anyone, the words that left Yves’ lips were a period cut down to a quarter of the actual answer.

“Oh-ho. So the Riviera Hotel chain CEO’s ‘serious relationship’ is just that long? That’s harsh.”

“I doubt either of them has the stomach for anything longer.”

Without specifying who he meant, Yves recalled pale-colored eyes, the words “Just let it slide,” and Maël saying, What’s the point of beating the heir? It’ll only cause more trouble.

“Maybe I’ve just heard their names too much while staying in the casino,” Yves mused.

It was an incomprehensible choice, but Yves chalked it up to a momentary lapse.

No harm in letting himself be fooled once. He had won with his demands before; why not let the other side win this time to see what might happen?

Just then, Charles walked into the private room, rolling his shoulders. Felix shouted at him immediately.

“Hey, Charles, how many months has it been?”

“…What?”

“How long have you and Maël been together? Tell us properly, huh?”

“Uh, since last year’s Rose Ball. So, about a year?”

Scratching his cheek, the blond man responded. Felix burst out laughing and tossed a pile of chips toward Yves.

“Did I win? I won, right?”

Apparently overjoyed, Felix grabbed a handful of chips and threw them in the air like confetti. The drunken heir’s jubilant antics were unseemly and showed no sign of stopping. Charles blinked and asked cautiously.

“But what… what exactly did you win?”

“That’s not the point! Ahaha! Hey, Charles, you’ve been with Maël for a year, and now what? Yves said he likes Maël too! Said he couldn’t take his eyes off him!”

Felix, laughing hysterically, rolled his eyes back. After his irritating chuckles subsided, Charles twisted his lips and spat out,

“So what if he likes him? Only uncultured bastards drool over what others are eating.”

To that, Yves let out a faint laugh, almost as if he were exhaling.