Wrong Script, Right Love Chapter 7: The Saint of Forjenholm

[Thorenvald Mansion—The Next Day]

"Good morniiiing, my loooord~~!"

"Good morning, my lorrrddd~~~!!"

"I hope you had a good sleep, my lord~~~"

The maids all chorused like a choir of drunk sirens. They didn’t just greet —they perford a musical number. One of them even had jazz hands.

I stared, blinking. "What... is this? An opera?"

My maid and servants practically bounced beside as I stepped out of my chamber, their faces glowing like the morning sun.

... Why the hell are they chirping like a damn songbird this early?

"Here is the warm blanket, my lord~~~," other maids covered with the blanket and trilled again.

Before I could answer, another voice chid in—"Should I serve you honey tea, my lord?" —this ti from the butler, who was already standing there like a sacred priest holding a holy teapot.

I blinked. I walked down the hallway with my small crimson baby dangling lazily from my arms, but the way everyone’s eyes sparkled at made stiffen.

What in the frozen nine realms was this? Why were my people looking at like I was their long-lost saint?

I wasn’t used to this bombardnt of affection. This was suspicious. Too suspicious. Had soone poisoned the entire mansion with a love potion? Or slipped optimism into the water supply?

Then the Baron Sigurd ca striding up, a docunt in his hands, his face so serious you’d think he was carrying the empire’s secret scrolls.

"My lord, we need your signature here," he said.

I scribbled my na quickly and leaned close, whispering, "Baron... why the hell is everyone showering with so much respect all of a sudden? The atmosphere is warm. It’s supposed to be cold."

The man grinned. Grinned! Like he’d been waiting his whole life for this mont.

"This is the fruit of your labor, my lord," Sigurd said, voice practically glowing.

I blinked. "Pardon?"

He nodded brightly, saying, "Yes, my lord. you have tad the Crimson Packs. Thanks to that, we no longer have to sleep hungry, and all supplies will arrive on ti and villagers have recognized the crimson pack as their own. People not only see you as lord, they see you as... their problem-solver."

I froze mid-sign. My mouth opened into a perfect ’O’.

"P—P—Problem solver?" I stuttered, clutching my crimson baby like it was my last lifeline.

"Yes, my lord!" Sigurd’s grin stretched wider and his chest was puffed with pride.

"I—I didn’t ask for such a strange title!" I protested.

"Yet now you have it, my lord," he said solemnly. And then—suddenly—his entire face changed. His eyes glinted, his jaw tightened, and his voice bood with the force of ten thunderstorms.

"From this day forward, not only I, but all the people of this territory recognize you as..." He threw his arms wide, as though summoning the heavens themselves.

"—SAINT OF FORJENHOOOOLM!!!"

The words echoed down the hall, vibrating in my bones. Sowhere, a maid gasped. Soone else clapped. My crimson baby sneezed.

And ?

I just stood there frozen, my mouth hanging open, trembling not from the cold but from sheer disbelief.

I: ... Are you people for real?

. . .

. . .

. . .

Should I be happy? Or worried? Maybe both? My brain was doing a tap-dance routine I hadn’t signed up for.

I dragged a long, suffering sigh out of my chest and muttered, "...I guess it’s a good thing."

Baron Sigurd trailed after like a shadow with too much energy.

"Did Grand Duke Alvar leave?" I asked.

His brows furrowed deeply, like the question itself offended him. "No, my lord. In fact, he is waiting for you at the breakfast table."

I stopped dead in my tracks. "...Co again?"

"Grand Duke Alvar is still here, my lord."

"Still—?!" My jaw nearly dislocated.

He’s still here?! He should’ve left after I ca out to him! That’s how it’s supposed to work! He takes the hint, gets offended, storms out dramatically, and then—poof! Gone! End of plotline!

Instead—he’s casually sitting at my dining table?!

Utterly baffling.

***

[Dining Room—Later]

I walked into the dining chamber, the heavy doors creaking open.

And there he was.

Grand Duke Alvar Ragnulfsson.

Sitting at the ridiculously long oak table like he owned the entire continent, slicing into his steak with the kind of precision that could probably end wars.

His glacier-blue eyes flicked up to , cold and cutting. "You’re late."

I froze mid-step, dumbfounded. anwhile, my crimson baby—little fluff ball—was busy licking my cheeks like I was a giant lollipop.

"Yes. I. Am. Sorry," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I strode forward. "I. Was. Rude. To. Be. Late. In. My. Own. House."

His gaze drifted toward the crimson baby in my arms. "Do you really need to drag your... crimson pack everywhere you go?"

I sighed dramatically and sank into the head seat at the table. "Since they’re my babies, that makes their mommy. Which ans, yes, I have to take them everywhere I go."

His knife stilled. His expression didn’t change, but his voice carried a sharp edge. "Since when did a man beco a mother?"

I blinked, then slowly smirked. "Since the day I realized who I am. Didn’t I tell you yesterday that I like n?"

His jaw tightened.

"And naturally," I continued, twirling my fork like I was conducting a symphony of scandal, "the man I choose will beco their father. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Grand Duke?"

For the first ti, he stiffened—just a fraction, but I caught it.

I cut into my steak leisurely, savoring my tiny victory. "Honestly, I thought you’d packed your bags and left already. Was there... an issue with your departure?"

He lifted his glass, sipping like he wasn’t choking on my very existence, and replied smoothly, "I don’t recall saying I was leaving, Leif."

My knife clattered against the plate. I squinted at him. "Even after what I said yesterday?"

"Yes." He took a bite of his steak, as if the conversation was about the weather.

I just stared at him, brain short-circuiting.

What the hell is wrong with this man? He should have been disgusted. He should have stord out. He should have run far, far away and vowed never to cross my path again.

And yet—here he was.

Calm. Cold. Eating steak in my dining hall like nothing happened.

What exactly are you thinking, Grand duke?

***

[Alvar’s Pov]

... That I know you’re lying to , Leif.

A man liking n? Hah. That has to be the most absurd excuse I’ve ever heard in my life. Ridiculous, really—so ridiculous it’s almost laughable.

I lifted my gaze at him. He sat there, chewing his steak like it was the only peace in the world he had left. The sight was strange, irritating even. As though this entire breakfast were his little stage, and he—acting so bright, so lively, so carelessly lazy—thought he could fool with a flick of the wrist and a few clever words.

Leif... changed.

Radically. The man I knew before would never have done this—never shirked, never fled. It had shocked when Elowen whispered that he’d gone to Frojnhelm. The man who never once backed away from his word to her had suddenly disappeared to another territory? No warning. No reason. Only silence.

It was a surprise; that’s why I was here. To take him back.

But this version of Leif? Sitting across from now? He feels like a stranger wearing his face. A man who jokes, who smirks, who pretends. His brightness feels exaggerated. His liveliness is false. And that laziness—an insult painted over the steel I know lies beneath him.

Still, none of that truly concerns . A sudden change of personality is irrelevant when weighed against a broken promise.

What matters is his oath to Elowen. His words bind him to her. With him, she gains the Thorenvald na and the power to mingle among nobles—everything she needs. Everything she can secure.

And yet, he dares give this... flimsy, childish excuse. A lie dressed up as truth. "I like n."

Hah. Transparent. Stupid.

If Leif wants to play this little ga, then so be it.

Let’s play.

Let’s see how long you can hold on to this ridiculous charade, Leif. I’ll wait. I’ll watch. And when he slips, when his mask cracks—I’ll see the truth.

He cannot hide it forever.