Reborn as the Psycho Villainess Who Ate Her Slave Beasts' Contracts

Chapter 430: Chapter-429

But saying it and doing it were two completely different things.

Julian could force his mind to accept the cold reality, he could practice his nonchalant expressions in the mirror, and he could sign his name with a perfectly steady hand—but he couldn’t control his heart. Every time he tried to take a deep breath, a sharp, suffocating ache flared up in his chest. His heart didn’t care about political logic or Clause Twelve; it only cared that the one woman he had looked to for a shred of security in this freezing, foreign court belonged entirely to someone else.

And the absolute worst part—the thing that made him want to rip his hair out in sheer frustration—was that he couldn’t even blame Elara.

She hadn’t lied to him. She hadn’t broken a single promise, because she had never offered him any affection to begin with. She didn’t even ’know’ she had broken his heart. To her, everything was running perfectly. If Julian went to her right now and told her about the agonizing pain ripping through his chest, she would probably just tilt her head, stare at him with those vacant glass-bead eyes, and ask him how his emotional distress affected the northern trade route metrics. She literally lacked the hardware to understand what she had done to him.

He couldn’t confront her, he couldn’t blame her, and he couldn’t hate her for being exactly what she had always claimed to be: a machine.

Julian leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, letting out a shaky, trembling breath. He was trapped in the most frustrating kind of hell—one where he was deeply, hopelessly affected by a woman who was completely, beautifully oblivious to his existence. He could play his part perfectly on her board tomorrow night, but as he watched the snow fall silently over the courtyard, he knew his heart was going to bleed through every single second of it.

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The night of the mid-winter solstice banquet arrived, bringing with it a freezing wind that howled against the high stone walls of the imperial palace.

Inside the grand ballroom, the atmosphere was suffocatingly warm and loud. Crystal chandeliers dripped with hundreds of candles, illuminating the sea of high-ranking nobles, foreign diplomats, and wealthy merchants dressed in their finest winter silks and heavy furs. Everyone was talking in low, gossiping whispers, their eyes constantly darting toward the empty royal dais at the front of the room.

When the massive oak doors were finally thrown open, the entire hall fell into a sudden, breathless silence.

Elara walked into the room first. True to her schedule, she was the epitome of absolute imperial gravity. She wore an structured, formal gown of midnight-black velvet, the heavy fabric trailing behind her like a shadow. The high, severe collar was pinned with the silver crest of the Regent, and her silver-white hair was styled into an intricate, flawless braided crown. Her expression was a perfect, unchanging void.

Walking directly beside her, matching her steady, measured pace, was Julian.

He had forced himself back into his mask of absolute, nonchalant perfection. His spun-silver hair was styled immaculately, and his deep black northern doublet fitted his broad shoulders like a second skin, completely color-coordinated with her gown. His ice-blue eyes were calm, lazy, and carried just a hint of an amused smirk as he looked over the bowing crowd. On the outside, he looked like a proud, stunning prince who was completely in sync with his powerful fiancée.

But beneath the heavy velvet of his sleeve, Julian’s hand was clenched into a fist so tight his nails were biting bloodlessly into his palm.

His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every time his arm brushed against hers as they walked up the steps of the dais, a sharp, physical wave of pain shot straight through his chest. He could smell the faint scent of winter air and herbal soap radiating from her, and his treacherous mind immediately began to wonder if ’they’ had smelled it on her last night. He could feel the eyes of the entire court judging them, envying them, thinking they were a match made in political heaven, while he felt like a ghost walking to his own execution.

As they reached the top of the dais, Julian smoothly pulled out Elara’s grand chair for her, executing a flawless, graceful bow that back in the North would have made courtly women swoon.

Elara took her seat, her vacant glass-bead gaze flicking up to his face for exactly one second to measure his compliance. "Your posture is within the optimal ninety-five percent margin for public presentation, Prince Julian," she murmured flatly under the cover of the roaring crowd’s applause. "The domestic ministers are visibly intimidated by our visual alignment."

Julian sat down in his own main chair directly to her right—no longer separated by a long table, but sitting close enough that their sleeves almost touched. He leaned his cheek against his knuckles, giving her a lazy, nonchalant look that didn’t reach his hollow eyes.

"I am glad my aesthetic value meets your strict administrative standards, Your Highness," Julian replied, his baritone voice a smooth, effortless purr.

He looked away from her, his gaze scanning the base of the dais. There, standing in perfect, lethal formation at the front of the imperial guard line, were Ken and Mahir. Both of them were dressed in their full, high-ranking dark armor, looking like a pair of terrifying statues.

Ken caught Julian’s eye. The dark-haired commander didn’t break his formal stance, but his dark eyes filled with a heavy, mocking heat as a slow, deliberate smirk touched his lips. Next to him, Mahir stood rigid, his beast-kin ears twitching as he tracked the perimeter. But as Julian watched, Mahir’s long dark tail gave a single, lazy sweep against the stone floor, a quiet, animalistic show of complete territorial dominance.

Julian felt his jaw tighten so hard it ached. He wanted to scream, he wanted to tear the black doublet off his body and walk out into the freezing snow, but his royal conditioning kept him frozen in his seat, his fake, handsome smile perfectly intact for the foreign ministers who were raising their wine glasses to him. He was trapped in a flawless, beautiful prison, sitting right next to the warden who didn’t even know she was holding the key to his misery.

The banquet dragged on for hours, a blur of endless courses, loud laughter, and tedious toast after toast. To the court, the Empress Regent and her northern prince were the picture of absolute, unyielding power. They sat side by side, their matching black attire absorbing the warm candlelight, looking entirely untouchable.

But for Julian, every minute was an agonizing test of endurance. He kept his posture relaxed, casually swirling the red wine in his glass and offering smooth, witty remarks whenever a foreign diplomat approached the dais. He played the part of the nonchalant, charmed fiancé perfectly. But inside, his chest felt like it was being compressed by a vice.

Elara sat completely still beside him, eating her meal with her usual precise, mechanical efficiency. She didn’t look at the crowd, she didn’t smile at the music, and she certainly didn’t notice the subtle tension in Julian’s shoulders.