My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 83

Chapter : 165

Lloyd felt a strange, unexpected surge of… something. Not jealousy, not quite pride, but a sort of detached, almost clinical appreciation for the sheer, objective power of her beauty, even when partially concealed. It was a weapon, whether she intended it to be or not, capable of silencing rooms and igniting hopeless passions with a mere rustle of silk and a glimpse of obsidian eyes. He remembered the whispers from his first life, the flowery odes composed by smitten young nobles, the duels fought over a single, rumored glance from behind her veil. Lady Rosa Siddik, the Ice Flower of the South, the Unattainable Sapphire… her beauty had been legendary, a thing of songs and sighs. And she was his wife. His wife who slept on the other side of the room and communicated primarily through icy glares and the occasional, cryptic, one-word pronouncement. The irony was almost physically painful.

He took another sip of the terrible tea, his gaze lingering on her as she found a seat near his mother, Milody, the two of them forming an island of formidable, if very different, feminine power in the testosterone-heavy hall. Rosa inclined her head politely to his mother, a subtle gesture of respect, but her veiled face remained turned away from the rest of the room, projecting an aura of serene, untouchable indifference.

She is beautiful, Lloyd thought, the observation less a husband’s appreciation and more an objective, almost scientific, assessment. Even with half her face hidden, even radiating an ambient temperature that could probably sustain a small colony of penguins, there’s no denying it. The bone structure, the eyes, the way she carries herself… it’s like looking at a perfectly sculpted statue carved from moonlight and glacier ice. He remembered the almost painful intensity of her beauty when he’d first seen her unveiled, on their disastrous wedding night, her eyes wide with fear and fury. It had been overwhelming then, terrifying even, to his nineteen-year-old self. Now, filtered through the lens of eighty years of experience and a lifetime of seeing other beauties, other wonders, it was… still overwhelming. But in a different way. Less intimidating, more… intriguing. A complex, beautiful, incredibly frustrating puzzle he was only just beginning to comprehend.

And she smelled of rosemary. His rosemary. That, he decided, as he finally set down his cup of truly abominable tea, was perhaps the most intriguing, most perplexing, most unexpectedly hopeful piece of the entire, chaotic, wonderful, terrifying puzzle.

The Arch Duke was about to enter. The Summit was about to begin. And Lloyd Ferrum, armed with hidden powers, a burgeoning soap empire, a surprisingly fragrant wife, and a profound distaste for poorly brewed tea, was, for better or worse, ready. Or at least, as ready as a man who had recently been chased by two different mythological nightmares and threatened with leg-breakage by his own father could reasonably be expected to be. This, he thought with a grim, almost cheerful, sense of impending doom, was going to be interesting.

The low hum of conversations in the Grand Hall abruptly ceased, a wave of anticipatory silence washing over the assembled Ferrum clan as the massive, heraldic-emblazoned double doors at the far end of the chamber were swung open by two stoic, impeccably uniformed household guards. Every head turned, every eye fixed on the entrance. The air crackled with a new kind of tension, not just familial politicking, but the added weight of external scrutiny.

Arch Duke Roy Ferrum entered. His presence, as always, commanded the room, his stern features an unreadable mask of ducal authority, his dark eyes sweeping over the assembly with an intensity that seemed to miss nothing. He moved with a measured, powerful stride, radiating an aura of absolute, unwavering control.

But he was not alone.

Flanking him, and walking with an easy confidence that spoke of equal, if different, status, were four individuals who clearly did not belong to the Ferrum clan. Their attire, while noble and expensive, bore different sigils, different styles, hinting at allegiances beyond the Duchy’s borders. Their presence instantly amplified the existing tension, transforming the Annual Ferrum Family Summit from an internal affair into something far more significant, far more… public.

Lloyd, still nursing his now-cold, still-offensive tea, felt his senses sharpen, his internal eighty-year-old strategist instantly on alert. Outsiders. Just as Father said. But who? And why?

Chapter : 166

His gaze swept over the newcomers. The first, a man of roughly his father’s age, with shrewd, intelligent eyes, a neatly trimmed grey beard, and an air of quiet, pragmatic authority, was instantly recognizable. Jason Siddik. Viscount Siddik. Rosa’s father. His presence wasn't entirely unexpected; as the father of the Arch Duke’s new daughter-in-law, his attendance, while perhaps not standard, was understandable, a gesture of strengthening familial ties. He offered Roy a respectful, almost familial nod as they walked.

The other three, however, were ciphers, their faces unfamiliar, their allegiances unreadable from this distance. One was a stout, florid-faced man with a booming laugh that seemed perpetually on the verge of erupting, dressed in rich velvets that strained slightly at the seams, his eyes quick and assessing. Another was older, leaner, with a scholar’s stoop and eyes that held a lifetime of patient observation, his robes simple but of exquisite quality. The fourth… the fourth man was different. He was younger, perhaps in his late thirties, with an easy, almost deceptively casual grace, his attire understated yet impeccably tailored, his features handsome but unremarkable, almost forgettable. Yet, there was something about his eyes, a keen, penetrating intelligence, a subtle aura of command that seemed to hum just beneath his unassuming surface, that made Lloyd’s internal alarms prickle faintly. This man, Lloyd sensed, was more than he appeared.

As Roy Ferrum and his distinguished guests made their way towards the raised dais at the head of the hall where the Arch Duke would preside, another, smaller drama unfolded. Viscount Rubel Ferrum, Lloyd’s ambitious, recently chastened uncle, practically sprinted from his position amongst the branch family heads, his face wreathed in a sycophantic, almost desperate smile. He intercepted the Arch Duke’s party near the center of the hall, bowing deeply, his voice, when he spoke, dripping with a honeyed deference that Lloyd found physically nauseating.

"Your Grace! Esteemed guests! A most auspicious occasion!" Rubel gushed, attempting to insinuate himself into the procession, to be seen publicly welcoming these important visitors, to subtly reassert his own diminished standing. "Allow me to personally extend the warmest greetings of the entire Ferrum—"

Roy Ferrum didn't even break stride. He didn't glance at his brother. He simply walked past him, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his silence a dismissal more profound, more cutting, than any verbal rebuke could ever have been. Jason Siddik and the other guests followed suit, their expressions carefully neutral, though Lloyd fancied he saw a flicker of amusement in the stout man’s eyes and a hint of disdain in the scholar’s. Rubel was left standing alone in the middle of the hall, his fawning smile frozen on his face, the color slowly draining from his cheeks as the full, public weight of the Arch Duke’s continued displeasure landed like a physical blow. He looked, for a moment, like a man who had just been slapped with a very large, very invisible fish. Serves you right, you scheming toad, Lloyd thought with a grim, satisfying smirk, taking another sip of his now truly vile tea.

The Arch Duke and his guests ascended the dais. Roy took his seat in the ornate, high-backed chair carved with the roaring Ferrum lion (still looking constipated, Lloyd noted). The visitors were seated in chairs of slightly lesser, but still significant, dignity on either side. The Summit was about to officially commence.

But before Roy could even clear his throat to deliver the opening address, one of the previously unrecognized VIPs, the older, leaner man with the scholar’s bearing and the patient eyes, rose from his seat on the dais. Instead of addressing the hall, however, he descended the steps and, to the surprise of everyone, Lloyd included, walked directly towards Lloyd’s slightly isolated table near the disgruntled potted fern.

Oh, here we go, Lloyd thought, hastily setting down his teacup, his mind racing. Who is this guy? And why is he making a beeline for the resident family disappointment? Does he want to borrow sugar? Complain about the tea quality? Offer unsolicited advice on fern care?

The man stopped before Lloyd’s table, his expression a mixture of grave dignity and something else… something that looked surprisingly like… gratitude? He offered Lloyd a slight, respectful bow, a gesture usually reserved for equals, not for a nineteen-year-old heir with a questionable academic record.

"Young Lord Ferrum," the man began, his voice quiet but carrying a surprising resonance, a scholar’s well-modulated tones. "Forgive this informal intrusion, but I felt I could not let this moment pass without expressing my profound, my deepest, personal gratitude."