A Gamble Called Marriage - Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 

The one who got excited midway was Felix. Blinking slowly, he finally raised his upper body with an aimless gesture and let out a giggle.

 

“So that’s how it is, Yves?”

 

“I heard.”

 

“What? Doesn’t that upset you?”

 

Yves, who wasn’t even inclined that way, declaring himself as gay had been a highly strategic decision.

 

Just as Felix lamented over himself as nothing more than a stud, the most critical role in a grand duke’s position was producing heirs.

 

Felix’s particular irritation toward Philippe stemmed from the fact that Philippe had already fathered a child. Anyone bearing the bloodline of the grand duke posed a threat to either the dominant heirs or their offspring sooner or later.

 

You didn’t have to look far; the current grand duke, Lucien III’s grandfather, was an illegitimate child of the Duke of De Broglie. With no one else eligible to inherit the duchy, the position had passed to his son, Lucien III’s father.

 

An illegitimate child couldn’t inherit the position of a grand duke. They were merely cumbersome disgraces. But the offspring of an illegitimate child? They became sharp blades threatening the position immediately.

 

I won’t be a threat to you.

 

That was the message Yves needed to continuously send to the grand ducal family until he was officially recognized as an illegitimate child. Only then could he secure that cursed recognition and plan his next move.

 

“Yves, aren’t you going to respond? He just called you a bastard.”

 

Let the esteemed upper class worry about honor and insults. Yves sifted through the pile of meaningless words and smiled faintly.

 

“Charles, was it? He’s not exactly wrong.”

 

Yves regarded him with a sidelong glance. In every way, the eyes of this young master, who had grown up delicately in a greenhouse, seemed like they might pop out of their sockets.

 

“What?”

 

“He’s right. I am a bastard.”

 

Yves continued, with a trace of laughter still in his voice.

 

“And drooling? Probably true too.”

 

Although it was an entirely different kind of drooling than what the blond man was imagining, there was no need to make that distinction explicit.

 

Perhaps it was after seeing that silly territorial dispute disguised as a melodrama. Somehow, it felt amusingly misplaced.

 

“But are you sure it’s still in your hands?”

 

Charles, who had been stomping toward Yves with puffed breaths, abruptly stopped in his tracks.

 

It was as if he were trying to gauge how much Yves knew. Felix, who had been chuckling and enjoying the spectacle, grabbed Charles’ arm.

 

“Take it easy. I’m getting sleepy now. Finish the fight later when I’m awake. I still have something to win and get from Yves.”

 

The dominant heir, who had emptied yet another martini glass amidst it all, mumbled drunkenly. Whether properly intoxicated or not, his body swayed precariously in the chair as he clung to Charles for support. He frowned as he muttered.

 

“Yves, send me… hmm… a watch or something. You know, like the one that Spanish tennis player wears? But don’t send one of those cheap ten-thousand-euro ones. I’d be offended.”

 

“I’ll send it within the week.”

 

As he replied, Yves clicked his tongue lightly. Trusting Maël Mun, the lawyer who introduced himself that way, hadn’t been the issue.

 

Spending money wasn’t a concern. The problem was that indulging them would only lead to more annoyance. It was the foolish result of trying to believe in something wrong on a whim.

 

“Oh, wait. This is the first time I’ve beaten Yves! I feel amazing!”

 

Just as Yves was thinking he wished the drunken rambling would end, Felix glanced around the casino hall.

 

“Yves, since I’m in such a good mood, should I let them host the wedding reception here? At the Riviera Hotel. For Philippe and Manon, I mean.”

 

He muttered as if offering a favor. Yves, who had been leaning his chin against his hand, raised an eyebrow.

 

“It’d be rude to have the reception at the grand ducal palace before me. Where would I hold mine later? I’m not even married yet. Even Father seems uneasy about it.”

 

It was Charles, standing beside him, who hurriedly tried to dissuade Felix.

 

“Your Highness, would it be okay to decide such a thing now? The wedding isn’t far off, and there are already preparations underway—”

 

“And?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Charles, so what if preparations are underway?”

 

Felix’s murky gaze turned cold as it bore down on Charles. With one hand swiping the air, Felix lightly pushed Charles’ forehead. Charles clenched his jaw tightly but managed to keep his forced smile intact.

 

“I’ll… convey your wishes to Serge. Then by tomorrow morning, His Highness the Grand Duke will know.”

 

“Sure, sure. Charles, if it doesn’t work out, it’s on you, got it? The Riviera Hotel is great. It deserves some backing—it used to be my business, after all. Yves, you’ll get a call by tomorrow.”

 

It was a statement requiring no response. Yves tilted his chin upward slightly, concealing any hint of disturbance with practiced ease.

 

Without Yves needing to lift a finger, everyone in the grand ducal family would come to the Riviera Hotel. It was an unexpected stroke of luck Yves hadn’t anticipated.

 

Does that lawyer really have good fortune?

 

Or was it merely a coincidence and the result of good judgment?

 

It didn’t matter either way.

 

Yves recalled those who had cheered after betting on the roulette with the numbers Maël Mun had suggested. For a moment, Yves felt like he was one of them and let out a dry chuckle.

 

Felix, staggering and swaying, groped for the stem of his martini glass with his free hand and issued a command.

 

“Take me to the grand ducal palace.”

 

With that one sentence, not only Felix and his companions but also the numerous guards surrounding them disappeared in an instant.

 

In the Riviera Casino, Mikola, who was stationed as a dealer, briefly glanced at the chips scattered like multicolored petals on the black carpet and asked,

 

“Partner, will you go with Attorney Munmatié?”

 

Yves thought for a moment.

 

Simply saying he was gay wouldn’t be enough; he’d have to show a romantic relationship. As serious as possible, before the paternity lawsuit began.

 

That left the question of who to place by his side. The plan had long been laid out; he just needed someone to fill the role.

 

It didn’t necessarily have to be Maël. But the answer came more easily than silence.

 

“Why not?”

 

“There are easier people.”

 

In other words, Maël wouldn’t be an easy choice.

 

In the end, gambling was about predicting the future, and Yves’ secretary, picked up from the gambling tables, excelled at statistical predictions. Not that such detailed statistics were necessary. Maël’s temperament alone made the answer obvious.

 

“I know.”

 

“The likelihood of him agreeing is extremely low, even if he is a male homosexual. Even if your decision to involve someone with limited knowledge of the plan was made to minimize exposure, it’s reckless.”

 

It was unusually verbose for him. Yves slowly drained the remaining liquor in his glass before replying.

 

“It’s not about how many people know or don’t know. That’s not the reason.”

 

“…Then?”

 

“I just like people with good luck.”

 

Would that be a convincing enough answer for Mikola, who had lost his left hand to a gamble that defied odds and statistics? The secretary opened his mouth but fell silent. Yves gestured with his eyes toward the chips scattered on the floor.

 

“Gather those up, buy a watch, and send it right away.”

 

Any unclaimed chips belonged to whoever picked them up.

 

Yves rose from his seat and slowly walked toward the large window set into the wall.

 

The first rule of casino design: no windows, clocks, or mirrors. Players needed to lose track of time to benefit the casino.

 

It was a well-known tenet by now, but here was an exception. Addicts didn’t need to lose track of time. Each gamble here involved sums of money ordinary people wouldn’t see in a lifetime anyway.

 

Beyond the window, waves crashed sweetly against the cliffs below. Yves opened the window, enjoying the sea breeze brushing against his cheek, and laughed.

 

Luck? What luck.

 

He had just experienced that so-called luck firsthand. Even so, it was more of an excuse than a genuine answer for Mikola. Yves had simply reached out to grasp Maël because he was a knife lying within arm’s reach.

 

Maël happened to be Manon’s brother, a handsome gay man who had been in the smoking room when Yves hit the jackpot. By sheer coincidence, in front of Yves’ half-brother, someone—presumably Maël’s lover—had bared their teeth and thrown a tantrum. That was all.

 

It was merely a product of chance, and there was no great meaning behind the choice.

 

Ah, maybe there’s one thing I’m hoping for.

 

That blond young master had mentioned the lawyer’s son was the CEO of a company. The man who had threatened to fire him with some lackluster theatrics if they broke up. Yves couldn’t be certain, but he hoped the man would put on a good show.

 

So that Maël would be cornered.

 

Cornered individuals became desperate, and desperation narrowed their vision. That would make them sharper.

 

In Yves’ experience, the sharper a tool, the easier it was to use.

 

Yves liked that sort of thing.

 

With that thought, he tore his gaze away from the roiling sea that seemed ready to swallow everything whole.

 

—

 

“May I assist with your reservation?”

 

“Ah, um… just a moment.”

 

When Maël hesitated, the reservation manager for “Le Louis,” the French restaurant on the ground floor of the Monte Carlo Hotel, smiled smoothly and nodded.

 

Maël checked his watch while glancing around awkwardly. It all began earlier that day, around noon, after he had returned from lunch to find an envelope left on his desk.

 

After ensuring the office door was securely closed, Maël had peeked into the envelope to find photos he’d known he would have to confront eventually.

 

On the topmost photo was a hastily scrawled post-it note:

 

[ 19:20, Le Louis ]

 

No date, no name—just the time and place.

 

He assumed it was about coordinating details after receiving the photos he was meant to. So, he made time to come here.

 

But as the clock ticked closer to 19:19, the man who sent the envelope was nowhere to be seen—not in the restaurant entrance nor elsewhere in the hotel lobby.

 

He couldn’t just go in and wait either. Le Louis was a Michelin three-star restaurant with reservations booked out at least six months in advance.

 

I do have his phone number.

 

It was the number given to him by the office for client communication. Should he call and ask where he was? While Maël debated, the numbers on his watch changed.

 

19:20

 

And then, a hand rested on his shoulder.