The Brothel Maiden: A Sold Girl's Rise to Prominence Through Reasoning Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Josée woke with a start.

Sitting up in bed, she rubbed at her tear-streaked eyes, groggy from sleep.

“I’ve been having the weirdest dreams lately... What’s going on with ?”

It was her day off, and as she stretched lazily in her room at Château Fournier, she sensed soone’s presence. A knock followed, and Marc stepped inside.

“Good morning, Josée-sama. I know it’s a bit sudden right after waking, but... a letter arrived for you.”

Marc’s expression was unusually bright, his excitent barely contained. Curious, Josée took the envelope from him—and froze.

The sender read:

**His Majesty Alban II of Tranlene**

Her breath caught. She opened the envelope with trembling fingers—the wax seal had already been broken—but that didn’t matter.

It was... an invitation to the underworld.

A powerful emotion surged through her chest.

Finally.

Finally, she'd made it this far.

She wanted to jump for joy, to dance around the room—but she forced herself to stay calm and read through the letter.

Formal attire required. Masks permitted. Attendance must be in male-female pairs.

Looking up from the letter, Josée t Marc’s eyes. He was grinning like a mischievous cat.

She couldn’t help but laugh.

“Nice try, Marc. But you’re still a child. I’m not taking you with !”

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue in mock frustration.

“I need a man to go to the underworld with ... Who should I ask?”

The first face that ca to mind was Serge.

“I wonder if Serge would co with ?”

Marc, surprisingly composed for his age, folded his arms and offered a thoughtful suggestion.

“By the way, Josée-sama, you’ve never attended a formal royal event before, have you? This might be a good chance to ask a noble for advice on court etiquette.”

Josée blinked.

“You’re right... I’ve never even set foot inside the palace. I wouldn’t know the first thing about proper behavior.”

“If you make a blunder in front of His Majesty, you might not get invited again.”

“Ugh, that would be a disaster... I really have to be careful.”

Still, why now? What had prompted the king to send her an invitation?

(Soday, I’ll ask him. But for now... I need to prepare.)

Unable to sit still, Josée grabbed a pen and began writing to Serge. She explained that she’d received an invitation to the underworld, asked him to teach her proper etiquette, and—if he didn’t mind—requested that he escort her to the palace.

She paused mid-sentence, staring into space.

“Am I... maybe relying on Serge a little too much these days?”

Even so, she finished the letter and handed it to Marc.

“Please deliver this to the Baradur residence.”

With a nod, Marc saddled up and rode off.

◆

Around the sa ti—

Serge had been summoned back to the Baradur estate for the first ti in a while. Lately, he’d been staying at the Radical Party headquarters, avoiding ho as much as possible.

The reason? His overbearing father.

But it seed he could no longer run.

With heavy steps, Serge made his way to breakfast. A maid poured him a cup of tea, but he barely touched it.

Across the table sat David Baradur, arms crossed, his al already finished. His sharp gaze watched Serge’s every move, like a hawk waiting to pounce.

“I’ve already decided on your bride,” David said without preamble. “It’s Rachel of the Jacquard family. Her lineage is impeccable.”

Serge sighed. So this was how his morning was going to start.

As always, his father was obsessed with pedigree and status. To David, those two things—and money—were the only ingredients for happiness. Personality? Passion? Luck? All aningless.

Serge had long grown tired of his father’s outdated ideals.

Even after Serge had been forced to retire from the military due to injury, his father had pushed him to acquire a noble title. Serge had clawed his way to a seat in parliant, only for David to start ddling in his political activities too. Anything that slled of progress or reform was an eyesore to him.

Naturally, father and son were constantly at odds.

“As I’ve said before,” Serge began, controlling his temper, “I’ll decide who I marry, and when. My life is mine to live.”

David let out a sharp laugh.

“Foolish boy. You’re a grown man—stop spouting such childish nonsense.”

“...”

“And I’ve heard you’ve been spending ti with a certain courtesan.”

Serge’s cup slipped from his hand and crashed onto the table.

A servant silently appeared to clean up the ss, as if this kind of thing happened often.

“...Who told you that?”

“Hm? Doesn’t matter. As long as you have a proper wife, it’s fine for a man to play around a little. Just do what you’re told and get married.”

“She’s not a courtesan. She’s the brothel’s master.”

“Oh? So you’re dating an older woman now?”

“That’s not it.”

“No more excuses. As long as you marry and produce heirs, no one will care who you dally with. Just settle down before the year’s end.”

“You’re not listening. She’s a mber of the Radical Party. She’s working to beco the first female representative—”

“What a waste of ti. You’d be better off hitting the books instead of chasing after so harlot.”

No matter what Serge said, it didn’t get through. His father would twist logic, dismiss feelings, and use every trick in the book to shut down any opinion that wasn’t his own.

Without touching a single bite of food, Serge stood and stord out of the dining room.

So much for an “important discussion.” He’d been summoned just to have his ti wasted.

(Damn it. I’m so irritated I’m actually hungry now... Maybe I’ll hit a café.)

In Torunie, the royal capital, cafés competed fiercely with unique nus and services. If he left now, he could still make it in ti for morning hours.

With that thought, Serge left the mansion, hailed a carriage, and headed toward the bustling downtown district.