Who treated him to a train wreck? The Medea maids around me looked at me with troubled expressions as they heard the grumpy old man's rant.
My grandfather used to be like that in real life. It was so bad that the nurses couldn't stand it and ran away.
I sat across from the old man, who seemed to be stubborn, and asked him quietly.
“How can I help you eat? Can I just watch you eat in front of me?”
I had never served a meal before, so I asked because I really didn't know, but the old man's eyes widened as if he thought I was being sarcastic.
"How did you get an education like that! You must be an idiot who doesn't even know calculus!"
“Then ask someone who knows how to solve calculus problems to come and help you.”
“You even talk back to me every time! What is your major?”
“It’s art.”
"Huh, I like that. My sister also did art. She's a friend of a famous painter."
The old man was still growling as he stirred the bean-filled soup with a spoon.
"I'm from Ireland. I hate beans!"
“There are many other things, so please eat something else.”
“I’m telling you to keep that in mind when planning my meals, granddaughter-in-law.”
“Don’t be a picky eater. You should live a long life.”
“I have the right to eat whatever I want. Can't I be picky at this age?”
The old man whined like a child, complaining about the bread being tough, the salad not being fresh, and so on. I just rested my chin on my hand and responded with a somewhat indifferent air. Eventually, things didn't go his way, and the old man, furious, began to fling the plate around with his skinny, wrinkled hands.
“I don’t like it at all! Send all the maids to the camps and coal mines!”
He raised his voice and pointed his finger at the maids like a dictator. The dining room was filled with the sound of plates flying, food spilling, and shattering on the floor.
I sighed deeply and just watched the scene quietly.
Noah came in, wearing a checkered dark gray suit and a wine-colored coat. He seemed to have returned from an outing. He briefly observed the angry old man and the messy table and floor, then smiled kindly.
“Don’t bother my princess, Grandpa.”
“I don’t like it at all. Don’t even think about marrying a woman who can’t find the general term of the Fibonacci sequence!”
“It's okay, I'll get it for her.”
Noah answered, pointing to his head with his finger.
"This is Dr. Fred Rugen, who taught me when I was young. He feels a little sore here, perhaps from torture in the Lenin Federal Republic concentration camps."
“Wasn’t he your grandfather?”
“No. My grandfather has already passed away.”
"What's wrong with my head? I'm an intellectual who quit my research job and now works as a professor at Socheskiv University!"
“That was ten years ago.”
Noah added with a smile. "I think he has dementia." I tried to smile as gently as I could.
“You were a professor. I thought so, judging by your good pronunciation.”
The old man, who had been sitting at the messy table, wiped his mouth with a napkin in a gentlemanly manner, then stood up and picked up his handsome cane.
"I'm going now. I don't need a granddaughter-in-law who doesn't want to serve her elders."
“You stayed until the meal was over, right?”
“I don’t like the fact that you don’t lose even a single word.”
The old man clicked his tongue and turned around, and Noah gestured to the maid next to him.
“The doctor’s room is on the second floor.”
“I don’t want to be here.”
The old man, who had been grumbling about his dislike, obediently followed the maid up the stairs to the second floor. I stared blankly down at the stained tablecloth and the floor littered with broken pieces, a tangle of inexplicable eccentricities.
"I'm sorry. He has to stay here with us for a while. He's the one we need right now. Can you understand?"
My grandfather used to be like that in real life. It was so bad that the nurses couldn't stand it and ran away.
I sat across from the old man, who seemed to be stubborn, and asked him quietly.
“How can I help you eat? Can I just watch you eat in front of me?”
I had never served a meal before, so I asked because I really didn't know, but the old man's eyes widened as if he thought I was being sarcastic.
"How did you get an education like that! You must be an idiot who doesn't even know calculus!"
“Then ask someone who knows how to solve calculus problems to come and help you.”
“You even talk back to me every time! What is your major?”
“It’s art.”
"Huh, I like that. My sister also did art. She's a friend of a famous painter."
The old man was still growling as he stirred the bean-filled soup with a spoon.
"I'm from Ireland. I hate beans!"
“There are many other things, so please eat something else.”
“I’m telling you to keep that in mind when planning my meals, granddaughter-in-law.”
“Don’t be a picky eater. You should live a long life.”
“I have the right to eat whatever I want. Can't I be picky at this age?”
The old man whined like a child, complaining about the bread being tough, the salad not being fresh, and so on. I just rested my chin on my hand and responded with a somewhat indifferent air. Eventually, things didn't go his way, and the old man, furious, began to fling the plate around with his skinny, wrinkled hands.
“I don’t like it at all! Send all the maids to the camps and coal mines!”
He raised his voice and pointed his finger at the maids like a dictator. The dining room was filled with the sound of plates flying, food spilling, and shattering on the floor.
I sighed deeply and just watched the scene quietly.
Noah came in, wearing a checkered dark gray suit and a wine-colored coat. He seemed to have returned from an outing. He briefly observed the angry old man and the messy table and floor, then smiled kindly.
“Don’t bother my princess, Grandpa.”
“I don’t like it at all. Don’t even think about marrying a woman who can’t find the general term of the Fibonacci sequence!”
“It's okay, I'll get it for her.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? That he has to rescue me like some hero just to marry me? I stared at Noah with a look demanding an explanation.
"This is Dr. Fred Rugen, who taught me when I was young. He feels a little sore here, perhaps from torture in the Lenin Federal Republic concentration camps."
“Wasn’t he your grandfather?”
“No. My grandfather has already passed away.”
"What's wrong with my head? I'm an intellectual who quit my research job and now works as a professor at Socheskiv University!"
“That was ten years ago.”
Noah added with a smile. "I think he has dementia." I tried to smile as gently as I could.
“You were a professor. I thought so, judging by your good pronunciation.”
The old man, who had been sitting at the messy table, wiped his mouth with a napkin in a gentlemanly manner, then stood up and picked up his handsome cane.
"I'm going now. I don't need a granddaughter-in-law who doesn't want to serve her elders."
“You stayed until the meal was over, right?”
“I don’t like the fact that you don’t lose even a single word.”
The old man clicked his tongue and turned around, and Noah gestured to the maid next to him.
“The doctor’s room is on the second floor.”
“I don’t want to be here.”
The old man, who had been grumbling about his dislike, obediently followed the maid up the stairs to the second floor. I stared blankly down at the stained tablecloth and the floor littered with broken pieces, a tangle of inexplicable eccentricities.
"I'm sorry. He has to stay here with us for a while. He's the one we need right now. Can you understand?"
I nodded in agreement, saying it was okay as he spoke with a very apologetic expression.
"He was a bit violent and yelling, but at least he didn't throw plates or objects at people. He must be a good person at heart."
“It wasn’t like that originally. I’m sorry for making things difficult for you.”
I can understand this much, since I've always just received and enjoyed from him. I've already had a grumpy grandfather, so I'm used to it.
Dr. Rugen, who came to live here, seemed to regard Noah as his grandson and me as his granddaughter-in-law.
Despite his erratic mental state, he possessed a refined and gentlemanly demeanor. He always wore neat and tidy clothes. Nothing was difficult for me during that time. I never had to serve or do chores.
But he was always engaging in all the conflict-ridden behaviors at SeaWorld. Whenever he saw me, he'd always say no and glare.
Maybe I could have just left it to the maids or Molly and ignored it, but somehow it reminded me of my late, ill-tempered grandfather, so I spent time with him, eating, taking walks, and drinking tea.
Before my grandfather passed away, he said to me, "I did it because I was sick and lonely. It's just the irritability of old people. As you get older, you become more childish. I'm sorry."
Today, too, Dr. Rugen sits at the table, faithfully fulfilling his role as a demanding grandfather-in-law.
“Granddaughter-in-law, the soup is salty!”
“I’ll pour you some water.”
"When will I ever see my grandchildren? Have a son first to carry on the family line. I need a daughter! It's good to have a dependable older brother."
“We’re not married yet.”
The pattern of my conversations with Dr. Rugen always went like this: He looked at me with a hoarse, raspy laugh.
“Huh, you don’t even know what quantum mechanics is, so how can you understand my deep meaning?”
"Is there a deeper meaning to naming your grandchildren Molecules, Atoms, and Electrons? I did some research to discuss this with you, Doctor."
Dr. Rugen, who was spooning soup, glanced at me, put down his spoon, and closed his eyes listlessly. His eyes narrowed, and he grumbled again.
"My grandson is just like those imperialists. He must have brought me here just to exploit this old man."
“Do you know your grandchild’s name?”
“I know, I cherished him a lot. What I mean is...”
Dr. Rugen's clouded eyes, which had been hesitating at my question, became even more clouded. After a long silence, he spoke in a gentlemanly, courteous tone.
“Miss, here’s 20 rubles. Could you buy me a bottle of vodka?”
It was a rather random remark.
“Here it is. I just bought it.”
I tricked him by pouring him low-alcohol wine. It seemed to me like he was suffering from dementia.
“Thank you.”
The doctor rummaged through his pocket and put a crumpled bill in my hand.
“You don’t have to accept it.”
“I said that because I was grateful.”
The old man, who had become a completely different person, had a kind smile on his face, a hint of sadness. I couldn't help but wonder why Noah had kept him.
Because he just said, 'I need him.'
“...May God bless Your Highness the Princess.”
In Princess Erita's room, a pretty woman with a small frame and black hair was holding the hem of her skirt and bowing to the Princess.
The woman, who appeared to be only in her early twenties, possessed a beautiful and elegant appearance, but her complexion was pale and her expression was unpleasant. Her face was one of fear.
In her clear, aquamarine eyes, the image of the Princess laughing at herself was reflected as it was.
"Yes, Ayla. Thank goodness you didn't refuse and became my exclusive maid."
“Yes, yes. It is an honor.”
Contrary to the saying that fidgeting is an honor, it appears she was forced into becoming a maid. Sitting on a luxurious sofa, resting her chin on her hand, Princess Erita proudly gestured for her to come closer.
“Did you not like it?”
“Not at all, Princess.”
Erita smiled coldly as she leaned close to Ayla, who looked as if she was about to burst into tears.
“You even accepted the request of a married Marquis, who was much older than you, to become his mistress. How kind of you.”
Ayla kept her mouth shut and her head bowed, unable to answer.
She was born a poor commoner and worked diligently as a maid for a Marquis until she caught the eye of the Marquis of Wales. He, too, could not refuse him, as she does now.
"So, I hope you'll listen to my request. I'll take good care of you from now on. I need you."
Princess Erita smiled and wrapped Ayla's hair around her slender, beautiful fingers.
"I don't care what happens to my husband, Princess. It's better not to have a husband like that. I'll at least leave him an inheritance and a title."
She remembered the Marchioness of Wales's words. It was a suggestion intertwined with revenge, but she didn't care.
Because she could blame everything she did in the future on the Marquis and the government, she didn't even consider the fact that he was a high-ranking politician and one of the country's key figures.
It was a personal and emotional judgment that sympathized only with the Marchioness's personal grudge.
The Marquis's mistress, Ayla, was born to poor, working-class parents and never received even a basic education. Her life, shaped by poverty and social status, was a constant reminder of her.
She worked as a maid in the mansion of a member of the House of Lords, and at the age of seventeen, she received a letter of recommendation and was hired by the Marquis of Wales.
The Marquis of Wales, a member of the House of Lords and a high-ranking nobleman, was gentlemanly and kind, and his wife was not fussy, so the job was easy. On her twentieth birthday, while she was working diligently at the Marquis's house, the Marquis of Wales approached her and handed her a necklace.
“Master, what is this?”
"A birthday present. Now you look like a proper young lady."
A man with a neat and intelligent appearance pushed up his glasses and smiled kindly.
Although in his mid-thirties, he possessed a gentlemanly demeanor, refined style, and aristocratic dignity that made him a favorite among women. However, Ayla was timid and knew her place, so she didn't dare even think of such a thing toward him.
The Marquis asked, looking at her in confusion.
“Do you hate jewelry? I thought all women liked it.”
“It’s burdensome and I have to be careful... That’s right.”
“Haha, it seems I expressed my feelings in the wrong way.”
Heart, what heart?
She knew that noblemen and gentlemen of the upper class enjoyed a kind of prank on women of lower status, taking what they wanted and then throwing it away with excessive kindness and favor.
Women are deceived by fleeting illusions and sweet dreams of rising social status. This is their amusement.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll be able to face the Marchioness...”
"I hate long speeches, so I'll get to the point. I saw you working at Congressman Chelsea's mansion, and I liked you, so I asked him to do it for me. It's been a long time coming."
Ayla was speechless as the Marquis spoke of her as if she were an object. His fingers, filled with intent, stroked her dark brown hair.
“I need you. As a woman, not as a maid.”
So, be my government.
It was an unspoken coercion. Ayla, head down, couldn't even say no. An inexplicable fear gripped her, a fear of what might happen if she disobeyed him.
She had no rights, no sense of ownership, and no self-assertion, having lived like a consumable, without even receiving a proper education.
The first wife had the power to discipline and admonish the government, so she worried about the hardships she would face, but the Marchioness ignored her as if she were invisible, so she did not suffer the humiliations that ordinary governments suffer.
In fact, the Marchioness had planned to get rid of her altogether, so she didn't think petty harassment and nagging were necessary.
The current Ayla was dragged into the palace and became the Princess's maid. Her origins, her poverty, her unreasonable life. She had chosen none of it herself.
It wasn't until she arrived here that Ayla realized the Princess had a strong sense of entitlement and a foul temper. She'd trample on the back of her hand for not putting on her shoes properly, and she'd be severely beaten for even the slightest mistake.
It almost seemed as if the Marchioness had deliberately sent her here to die at the hands of Princess Erita. Today, as always, she was beaten. She was accused of being slow while following the Princess in the hallway.
A gentle voice fell like rain from above Ayla's head as she sat down with a thump on her cheek.
“It must hurt.”
An elegant man with silver-white hair and a stylish suit was looking down at Ayla.
"He was a bit violent and yelling, but at least he didn't throw plates or objects at people. He must be a good person at heart."
“It wasn’t like that originally. I’m sorry for making things difficult for you.”
I can understand this much, since I've always just received and enjoyed from him. I've already had a grumpy grandfather, so I'm used to it.
Dr. Rugen, who came to live here, seemed to regard Noah as his grandson and me as his granddaughter-in-law.
Despite his erratic mental state, he possessed a refined and gentlemanly demeanor. He always wore neat and tidy clothes. Nothing was difficult for me during that time. I never had to serve or do chores.
But he was always engaging in all the conflict-ridden behaviors at SeaWorld. Whenever he saw me, he'd always say no and glare.
Maybe I could have just left it to the maids or Molly and ignored it, but somehow it reminded me of my late, ill-tempered grandfather, so I spent time with him, eating, taking walks, and drinking tea.
Before my grandfather passed away, he said to me, "I did it because I was sick and lonely. It's just the irritability of old people. As you get older, you become more childish. I'm sorry."
Today, too, Dr. Rugen sits at the table, faithfully fulfilling his role as a demanding grandfather-in-law.
“Granddaughter-in-law, the soup is salty!”
“I’ll pour you some water.”
"When will I ever see my grandchildren? Have a son first to carry on the family line. I need a daughter! It's good to have a dependable older brother."
“We’re not married yet.”
The pattern of my conversations with Dr. Rugen always went like this: He looked at me with a hoarse, raspy laugh.
“Huh, you don’t even know what quantum mechanics is, so how can you understand my deep meaning?”
"Is there a deeper meaning to naming your grandchildren Molecules, Atoms, and Electrons? I did some research to discuss this with you, Doctor."
Dr. Rugen, who was spooning soup, glanced at me, put down his spoon, and closed his eyes listlessly. His eyes narrowed, and he grumbled again.
"My grandson is just like those imperialists. He must have brought me here just to exploit this old man."
“Do you know your grandchild’s name?”
“I know, I cherished him a lot. What I mean is...”
Dr. Rugen's clouded eyes, which had been hesitating at my question, became even more clouded. After a long silence, he spoke in a gentlemanly, courteous tone.
“Miss, here’s 20 rubles. Could you buy me a bottle of vodka?”
It was a rather random remark.
“Here it is. I just bought it.”
I tricked him by pouring him low-alcohol wine. It seemed to me like he was suffering from dementia.
“Thank you.”
The doctor rummaged through his pocket and put a crumpled bill in my hand.
“You don’t have to accept it.”
“I said that because I was grateful.”
The old man, who had become a completely different person, had a kind smile on his face, a hint of sadness. I couldn't help but wonder why Noah had kept him.
Because he just said, 'I need him.'
***
“...May God bless Your Highness the Princess.”
In Princess Erita's room, a pretty woman with a small frame and black hair was holding the hem of her skirt and bowing to the Princess.
The woman, who appeared to be only in her early twenties, possessed a beautiful and elegant appearance, but her complexion was pale and her expression was unpleasant. Her face was one of fear.
In her clear, aquamarine eyes, the image of the Princess laughing at herself was reflected as it was.
"Yes, Ayla. Thank goodness you didn't refuse and became my exclusive maid."
“Yes, yes. It is an honor.”
Contrary to the saying that fidgeting is an honor, it appears she was forced into becoming a maid. Sitting on a luxurious sofa, resting her chin on her hand, Princess Erita proudly gestured for her to come closer.
“Did you not like it?”
“Not at all, Princess.”
Erita smiled coldly as she leaned close to Ayla, who looked as if she was about to burst into tears.
“You even accepted the request of a married Marquis, who was much older than you, to become his mistress. How kind of you.”
Ayla kept her mouth shut and her head bowed, unable to answer.
She was born a poor commoner and worked diligently as a maid for a Marquis until she caught the eye of the Marquis of Wales. He, too, could not refuse him, as she does now.
"So, I hope you'll listen to my request. I'll take good care of you from now on. I need you."
Princess Erita smiled and wrapped Ayla's hair around her slender, beautiful fingers.
"I don't care what happens to my husband, Princess. It's better not to have a husband like that. I'll at least leave him an inheritance and a title."
She remembered the Marchioness of Wales's words. It was a suggestion intertwined with revenge, but she didn't care.
Because she could blame everything she did in the future on the Marquis and the government, she didn't even consider the fact that he was a high-ranking politician and one of the country's key figures.
It was a personal and emotional judgment that sympathized only with the Marchioness's personal grudge.
***
The Marquis's mistress, Ayla, was born to poor, working-class parents and never received even a basic education. Her life, shaped by poverty and social status, was a constant reminder of her.
She worked as a maid in the mansion of a member of the House of Lords, and at the age of seventeen, she received a letter of recommendation and was hired by the Marquis of Wales.
The Marquis of Wales, a member of the House of Lords and a high-ranking nobleman, was gentlemanly and kind, and his wife was not fussy, so the job was easy. On her twentieth birthday, while she was working diligently at the Marquis's house, the Marquis of Wales approached her and handed her a necklace.
“Master, what is this?”
"A birthday present. Now you look like a proper young lady."
A man with a neat and intelligent appearance pushed up his glasses and smiled kindly.
Although in his mid-thirties, he possessed a gentlemanly demeanor, refined style, and aristocratic dignity that made him a favorite among women. However, Ayla was timid and knew her place, so she didn't dare even think of such a thing toward him.
The Marquis asked, looking at her in confusion.
“Do you hate jewelry? I thought all women liked it.”
“It’s burdensome and I have to be careful... That’s right.”
“Haha, it seems I expressed my feelings in the wrong way.”
Heart, what heart?
She knew that noblemen and gentlemen of the upper class enjoyed a kind of prank on women of lower status, taking what they wanted and then throwing it away with excessive kindness and favor.
Women are deceived by fleeting illusions and sweet dreams of rising social status. This is their amusement.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll be able to face the Marchioness...”
"I hate long speeches, so I'll get to the point. I saw you working at Congressman Chelsea's mansion, and I liked you, so I asked him to do it for me. It's been a long time coming."
Ayla was speechless as the Marquis spoke of her as if she were an object. His fingers, filled with intent, stroked her dark brown hair.
“I need you. As a woman, not as a maid.”
So, be my government.
It was an unspoken coercion. Ayla, head down, couldn't even say no. An inexplicable fear gripped her, a fear of what might happen if she disobeyed him.
She had no rights, no sense of ownership, and no self-assertion, having lived like a consumable, without even receiving a proper education.
The first wife had the power to discipline and admonish the government, so she worried about the hardships she would face, but the Marchioness ignored her as if she were invisible, so she did not suffer the humiliations that ordinary governments suffer.
In fact, the Marchioness had planned to get rid of her altogether, so she didn't think petty harassment and nagging were necessary.
The current Ayla was dragged into the palace and became the Princess's maid. Her origins, her poverty, her unreasonable life. She had chosen none of it herself.
It wasn't until she arrived here that Ayla realized the Princess had a strong sense of entitlement and a foul temper. She'd trample on the back of her hand for not putting on her shoes properly, and she'd be severely beaten for even the slightest mistake.
It almost seemed as if the Marchioness had deliberately sent her here to die at the hands of Princess Erita. Today, as always, she was beaten. She was accused of being slow while following the Princess in the hallway.
A gentle voice fell like rain from above Ayla's head as she sat down with a thump on her cheek.
“It must hurt.”
An elegant man with silver-white hair and a stylish suit was looking down at Ayla.
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