Wrong Script, Right Love Chapter 24: The Grand Duke’s Threat

[Leif’s POV — Chamber, continuation]

My brain? Dead. My heart? Doing backflips. My soul? Already packing bags for the afterlife.

Because the Grand Duke—Alvar "Iceberg McFrosty" himself—was hovering so close his breath fogged against my lips.

I squeaked. Actually squeaked. Like a rubber duck thrown into boiling water. "Y-you—you can’t just—say scary things—while looking THIS CLOSE!!!"

His eyes narrowed, frostfire blazing, voice low enough to crawl straight into my spine. "Scary? Or true?"

Damn it!!

That sounded way too much like a confession. Or a threat. Or both. Honestly, what’s the difference when it cos from him?!

"G-grand duke!" I flailed, pressing my back against the headboard like it could swallow into Narnia. "This is—you’re—are you trying to seduce or execute because the vibes are VERY CONFUSING RIGHT NOW."

He didn’t move back. Not even an inch. "You said Roland was your ’husband material,’" he said, jaw tight. "You don’t need him. Or anyone else."

"...Wait," I croaked, my voice breaking like a pubescent choir boy. "Are... are you saying YOU’RE my husband material?!"

Silence.

His glacier eyes didn’t flinch. His hand pressed harder into the mattress beside my hip. And then, low, cold, and terrifyingly certain, he said—

"Yes."

...

...

...

Excuse while I pass away.

My brain just blue-screened. I swear I heard Windows XP error noises ringing in my skull.

"...Yes, WHAT?!" I squeaked, my hands flapping helplessly in the air like a dying pigeon. "Yes, ’I’ll kill ’? Yes, ’I’ll exile ’? Yes, ’I’ll wear matching pajamas with ’? WHAT KIND OF YES IS THIS?!"

Alvar’s lips curved—no, not into a smile; don’t call it a smile; it was too sharp, too predatory. The kind of expression a Dragon makes when it finally corners the rabbit.

"The kind of ’yes’ that ans you don’t need to look at any man. Not Roland. Not anyone." His voice dropped lower, dangerously soft. "Because you already have ."

...

HELLO???? IS THIS A CONFESSION OR A KIDNAPPING PROLOGUE?!

"W-WAIT—Grand Duke—" I scrambled, palms flat on his chest, but gods help , WHY DID HIS CHEST HAVE TO BE SO HARD AND BROAD LIKE A DAMN STONE WALL?

My traitorous hands tingled like they were touching premium-grade husband material."Y-you can’t just say things like that casually!"

His eyes burned like winter fire, locking in place. "Casual? Do I look like I’m joking?"

"YES?!" I yelped. "No?! Maybe?? —OH GODS I DON’T KNOW—your face has exactly one setting and it’s ’terrifyingly hot and scary’!"

I shoved at his chest with all the strength of a dying pigeon. Spoiler: he didn’t move. Not even a milliter. Not even a wiggle. The man was basically a Hulk.

Because I just used 120% of my noodle arms, and you didn’t even blink!

Sigh....

"Grand duke your brain must be malfunctioning because of that accidental kiss! Yes, a simple glitch in the Grand Duke’s ice-cold processor!" I jabbed a finger at his chest like a professor scolding a dumb student. "But you’re forgetting one very important fact—you’re a Straight Man. And ? I’m a Rainbow Man."

Alvar blinked. His brows furrowed like I’d just declared war on logic itself. "...Straight? Rainbow... man? What kind of n are those?"

Oh.

I cleared my throat and launched into full lecture mode. "Straight n are the ones who can only be romantic with won. And Rainbow n—aka Gay—like —are the ones who only get romantic with n."

I waved my arms dramatically, warming to my nonsense. "Sa applies to girls, obviously! Yes, there are only two genders in this world, BUT when it cos to romance it’s actually a complex, multidinsional, culturally contextual—"

. . .

WAIT...WHY AM I SUDDENLY TEACHING THE GRAND DUKE EXTRA SEXUALITY BIOLOGY 101 AT MIDNIGHT?!

Alvar tilted his head, expression unreadable, his face still too close, like his entire aura was pressing down on . His lips curved ever so slightly as he murmured, "I don’t care what all those are. But... If I see you looking at Sir Roland. Sparkling. Like an idiot."

I choked. "S-sparkling—?!"

"You’ll be punished for that," he said flatly.

And then—like he hadn’t just declared himself Judge, Jury, and Executioner of my love life—he casually pulled back. With infuriating calm, he tucked into the blanket as if I were so cranky toddler he’d finally subdued.

"Now... sleep," he commanded, his tone brooking no argunt.

I just lay there, dazed, blinking at the ceiling. My limbs wouldn’t even twitch. My brain was still buffering sowhere between the threat of punishnt and unexpected husband-like caretaking.

Like an obedient, stunned child, I stayed wrapped up in his blanket trap.

. . .

. . .

... So... should I take his words as a confession or a threat?

I am totally confused, Now.

***

[Leif’s Office—The Next Day]

I was scratching my crimson baby’s belly fluff absentmindedly while he lay sprawled across my lap like an overfed pillow. He purred and drooled. Unlike , he had no existential crises.

anwhile, my brain was still fried like bacon on a Sunday pan.

Because what the hell was last night? Confession? Threat? A promise? A declaration of war?

I was still replaying Alvar’s words in my skull like a cursed music box when Nick arrived, balancing a tray with a steaming mug. "Here, my lord. Fresh hot cocoa—drink while it’s still hot."

Bless this man. I grabbed it imdiately and sipped without thinking.

"WAIT, MY LORD—IT’S—"

SPLURT!!!

"AGHHHHH IT’S HOT! HOT! I BURNT MY TONGUE!!"

My crimson baby squeaked at my outburst and rolled dramatically off my lap with a plop, glaring at as if I had personally betrayed him.

Nick panicked, shoving a glass of water into my hands. "Drink this! Slowly! Slowly!"

I gulped, hissed, then slumped back into my chair like a war casualty. "Nick... my tongue... my poor noble tongue..."

"What were you thinking, my lord?" Nick ignored my theatrics, already wiping down the desk where I’d spilled half the drink. "The parchnts! My god... Baron is going to have extra work again..."

I groaned. "Nick..."

"Yes, my lord?"

"...How do people usually confess their love?"

The rag froze mid-wipe. He blinked. Blinked again. Then—his mouth dropped open. "DID SOONE CONFESS TO YOU, MY LORD?!"

I waved my hands frantically. "N-NO, no, no, I was just asking hypothetically!"

But Nick was already spiraling. "But You’re only surrounded by n! The only noblewoman here is Princess Sirella and she—well—she’d rather eat her tiara than look at you lovingly!"

"...Wow. Thanks, Nick. Really boosting my confidence."

I sighed, waving him off. "I’m just asking. So? How do people normally confess?"

He thought for a second, then listed on his fingers: "They exchange letters, make promises of eternal love, flirt a lot, send flowers, sotis jewelry or gifts... and eventually they say things like ’I like you’ or ’I love you,’ or they directly propose marriage."

I leaned back, smirking. "You surely know a lot about confessions, Nick."

Nick went red. "I—I may have soone I like, my lord."

"Ohhh?!" I grinned. "So when are you going to introduce ?"

He covered his face. "Sooner or later, my lord..."

I chuckled... but then back to the serious topic, I asked, "So... do people also confess with a... threat?"

"...Threat?"

I nodded seriously. "Yes. Like... instead of flowers, they break a quill in half. Instead of saying, ’I like you,’ they say sothing like—’If you look at another person, I’ll make sure you never think of anyone else but .’ You know... normal romance stuff."

Nick’s mouth fell open. He stared. "...My lord, that... that’s not a confession. That’s... a hostage situation."

I groaned, collapsing onto my desk. "OH GODS. I KNEW IT!"

Before Nick could say anything else—

KNOCK. KNOCK.

I groaned, dragging my face off the wood. "Co in..." I muttered, sounding like a man halfway through a funeral.

The door creaked open.

And in swept Princess Sirella.

Her gown swirled like a stormcloud, her crimson lips pressed tight, her eyes glinting sharp enough to cut. She stopped dead center in my office, folding her arms.

"...Hey," she said flatly, "we need to talk."

I furrowed, "...About what?"

She didn’t answer right away. She just stared. Hard. Too hard. Like she could peel my skin off and read my soul underneath.

Then, with icy precision, she said—

"It’s urgent. Let’s talk alone."

. . .

. . .

Now... what in the nine hells does she want?