We Will Get Divorced: The Perfect Divorce Plan of the Sacrificial Daughter and the Cold-Blooded Soldier - Chapter 1

“Father, what is the meaning of this!”

“Quiet down. What are you making such a fuss about the moment you return after a month away?”

My father—Frank Eirondale, Duke of the Eirondale household—who had been gazing down at the garden from his study window, scolded me over his shoulder without even turning to look at his daughter whom he hadn’t seen in a month.

“I have every right to raise my voice! Why on earth is my room so, so… Huh?”

My unladylike shout cracked not because my father, who had finally turned to face me, had grown yet another waist size larger, but because the view of the courtyard visible through the luxurious window had drastically changed from a month ago.

“F-Father. The garden…”

“Hmm, you noticed.”

His mustache lifted with satisfaction, as if to say that was the reaction he’d been waiting for.

“The renovation was just completed yesterday. It’s what they call the fashionable palace-style garden these days.”

…Renovation?

“Magnificent, isn’t it? I had various roses arranged to represent our family crest. Of course, flowers alone would be boring, so I also had plenty of marble sculptures erected. And that—that bell tower. You won’t find one this size anywhere else in the entire Vishka Kingdom. Wait for it, it’s almost time for the bells to ring. I guarantee you’ll be moved to tears by the magnificent sound—”

“Please wait, Father.”

Tears were indeed threatening to fall. I rudely interrupted His Grace’s explanation.

“You renovated the courtyard again? I repeatedly asked you to stop wasting money.”

“It’s not a waste. This is a necessary expense to widely demonstrate the dignity of the Eirondale ducal house to the public—it’s practically official business.”

“The courtyard isn’t even visible to the public! More importantly, where did the funds come from? The renovation funds?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t touch the household money. It’s what you might call a windfall.”

“A windfall?”

That’s absurd. I know the Eirondale family’s financial situation inside and out. There’s no room for even a single gold coin to magically appear as a windfall.

“Father, we’re talking about courtyard renovation costs. Where did such a large sum of money fall from the sky?”

“Ah, enough! All you do is talk about money, money, money. Fine then, it’s useless trying to explain matters of taste to someone like you who doesn’t appreciate them.”

Having failed to extract the praise he wanted from me, my father quickly became displeased, turned his back to me with a huff, and faced the window again.

“—So, how did it go?”

He asked dismissively.

Since he probably wasn’t asking for my opinion on the garden at this point, he likely meant for me to report on my “official duties.”

I had plenty I wanted to say, but official matters took precedence over personal ones now. Suppressing the jumble of emotions in my stomach with a single sigh, I placed the documents I had organized in the carriage on the study desk.

“The flood control project for Club River is expected to resume shortly as we’ve barely managed to secure the necessary materials. The public order issues in the Dayby commercial district, for which we received a corrective recommendation from the royal capital, seem likely to be resolved through mediation by the Azizi Chamber of Commerce. However, we’ll need to make some concessions in return. “Azizi Trading Company?” What could we possibly concede to those thugs? “The Azizi Trading Company is now the foremost trading company in Eirondale.” We need to value our relationship with them. Also, regarding the rebellion in the Geneol region—”

“What did you say?”

“…I correct myself. The petition of dissent in the Geneol region has been settled peacefully.”

My father dislikes words like rebellion or insurrection. He takes any uprising in his domain as a personal insult. Yet he pushes all the troublesome work onto me, his daughter, while he indulges in his hobbies and luxuries—thanks to which the Eirondale family finances have been in dire straits for years.

“Hmm, so the Eirondale territory remains peaceful today as well. All thanks to my influence, Duke Eirondale, no doubt.”

“……”

“Sierra.”

“…Yes, it’s all thanks to Your Grace’s influence.”

Oh, how I wanted to say it. That I, the Duke’s Vice-Official, am running around cleaning up after His Grace the Duke. Father is always like this. He basks in all the honor and glory of being the Duke, while pushing all the troublesome matters onto me. Really, in what world is there a young lady who substitutes for the Duke’s official duties?

The title Duke’s Vice-Official might sound impressive, but in reality, it’s just a convenient substitute—a sacrificial lamb. If a trading company complains, I’m sent north to face their insults; if a flood control project stalls, I’m dispatched south to hear grievances; if a reprimand comes from the royal capital, I go west to bow my head in apology; if the people take up arms, I’m sent east to bear the brunt of their anger.

I wonder when it started—when the servants began calling me the ‘Sacrificial Young Lady.’

“Very well, I understand your report. You may retire to your room and rest for today.”

In the end, Father said this without once picking up the documents.

“That’s not possible.”

“You must be tired from your long journey. Just go rest in your room.”

“It’s impossible, Father.”

“Enough! How dare you, a mere daughter, defy your father at every turn!”

Finally, Father’s shouting exploded. Lately, our father-daughter conversations always end with Father’s outburst.

And then, as if waiting for that moment, the study door opened without a knock.

Who would open the door without knocking?

A family member, perhaps?

My stepmother and stepsister, maybe?