Julies rose to his feet, his hand brushing the dust from his coat as he turned to Amelia.
"Ready to face the Earl of Frost?"
She met his gaze steadily, her expression calm but unreadable. "I was born in his house, Julies. Ready or not doesn’t matter."
Julies gave a quiet chuckle, half amusement, half resignation. He adjusted his coat collar, straightened his gloves, and muttered under his breath, "I’ve faced dukes, demons, and worse. How bad could one Earl be?"
Amelia shot him a side glance, clearly unconvinced.
"Let’s go," he said lightly. "To see the person who’ll decide what to do with me."
She followed a step behind, her voice barely audible. "Instead of offering military support, it looks more like he’ll throw me out."
Julies glanced at her, a teasing smile curling his lips. "Who knows? I doubt it. Didn’t you say the Count is interested in me?"
Amelia sighed, rubbing her temple. "That wasn’t supposed to mean he’d tolerate your attitude."
Her tone was weary, not angry—more like someone resigned to dealing with a storm she couldn’t stop.
Julies only shrugged, as if the possibility of punishment was a mild inconvenience at best.
She couldn’t understand how he could be so calm. Even with Alice’s name and the Draken family’s honor behind him, walking into Earl Frost’s study without care was like stepping barefoot onto a frozen lake—every step could shatter the surface.
They reached the door. Two armored guards stood at attention, their faces expressionless. The moment Julies and Amelia approached, one knocked sharply on the wood before opening it with mechanical precision.
The study was vast—lined with shelves of ledgers and maps, filled with the faint scent of parchment and old ink. The air was heavy and cold, not from the winter outside but from the man seated behind the desk.
"I heard there was a commotion."
The voice was calm, yet it carried a weight that silenced the room instantly.
Earl Frost looked up from his paperwork, removing his thin silver-framed reading glasses. His hair, streaked faintly with gray, framed a face that was sharp and composed—his eyes glacial blue, the kind that measured a man’s worth in a single glance.
Amelia’s breath caught slightly. As expected.
Even now, after all these years, that piercing gaze still made her feel small.
"I’ll admit," the Earl said, folding the glasses and setting them aside, "you have some nerve, Julies Evans."
Julies met his gaze evenly. "I’ve been told that before."
The faintest flicker of amusement crossed the Earl’s lips before it vanished. "Can you explain what possessed you to come here unannounced? You walk into my domain, stir my household, and demand a meeting as if it were your right."
The air grew colder.
Amelia’s hand tightened around the hem of her dress. Her father’s tone wasn’t loud, but every word carried the weight of authority honed by decades of power.
It wasn’t just anger—it was control, absolute and deliberate.
Julies could almost feel Amelia’s tension beside him as they stood before the Earl’s desk. The weight of the Frost family’s authority pressed down on the room like a heavy snowstorm. To her, this wasn’t just a scolding—it was a test.
A confrontation between two worlds she stood between: duty and defiance.
Her throat felt dry, and she forced herself to stand straighter, chin lifted in that practiced noble composure she’d perfected since childhood. But Julies noticed the faint tremor in her fingers, hidden behind the folds of her dress.
"The servant was disrespecting his superiors," she began, her voice steady despite the pressure in the air, "and I couldn’t just stand by and watch as someone in the same position."
The Earl of Frost sat behind his massive desk, the silver frost motif of the family crest glinting on the wall behind him. His eyes were cold and sharp, the kind that weighed every word like coin.
"Do you intend to lecture him, then?" he asked, his tone measured but laced with irritation.
Amelia hesitated only for a heartbeat. "...Why not?"
A faint, dangerous smile flickered across the Earl’s face. The air in the room seemed to drop another few degrees.
Julies, however, didn’t flinch. Unlike her, he remained calm, hands clasped casually behind his back as if the Earl’s fury were nothing more than a breeze.
"Discipline," Julies said smoothly, "is a noble’s duty, my lord. Especially when your servants forget their place."
The Count’s gaze shifted to him, assessing. "Bold words for a guest in my house."
"Not bold," Julies replied evenly, "just honest."
Amelia’s heart skipped. Julies... what are you doing?
She had planned to gauge the Earl’s mood, not to provoke him. But Julies looked perfectly at ease—as if he were having a polite discussion over tea, not standing before one of the most powerful men in the North.
She was about to cut in, to stop him before he pushed too far—
—when he moved.
Grasp.
Amelia blinked, startled. "W-What...?"
Julies had taken her hand. Not awkwardly, not by accident—but naturally, confidently, as though it were the most logical thing in the world. His hand was warm, steady.
The Earl’s brows lifted slightly.
"If my fiancée is being insulted," Julies said calmly, his voice low but firm, "I cannot just stand by."
A tense silence fell.
The Earl leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Ho. So, you two are already in such a relationship?"
Amelia’s mind went blank.
’...No.’
This was a misunderstanding. A very dangerous one.
Her lips parted, ready to correct him, but the words caught in her throat. Because—technically—it wasn’t a lie.
She was Julies’s fiancée. On paper. For political convenience.
Still, the way he said it—the casual certainty in his tone—made her heartbeat stumble for reasons she refused to examine.
The Earl’s gaze shifted between them, eyes narrowing slightly, as though he were reading more into the gesture than either of them intended.
"Well," he said finally, his tone softening just enough to carry a trace of irony, "then I suppose it’s understandable for a man to defend his betrothed’s honor. But remember, Julies Evans—this is still my house."
Julies bowed slightly, his expression calm and respectful. "And I would never forget that, my lord."
The Earl hummed in approval—or perhaps amusement; Amelia couldn’t quite tell. His sharp eyes flicked between the two of them, studying every breath, every flicker of expression.
And then came the question that made her heart drop.
"Tell me, Julies Evans," he said smoothly, lacing his fingers together, "have you ever considered joining the Frost family... and leaving the Draken family behind?"
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
Amelia’s breath caught. She had anticipated this—she knew her father would eventually bring it up—but not now. Not like this, when the conversation had already started to slip in his favor.
Her eyes darted toward Julies. Now what will you do?
He didn’t flinch. Instead, his lips curved into a faint, almost lazy smile.
"Ha. Sorry," he said lightly, his tone just shy of irreverent, "but that’s a bit premature, don’t you think? Miss Amelia and I aren’t quite at that stage in our relationship yet."
Amelia blinked. What is he... plotting?
Her father arched an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
But before she could even try to smooth things over, Julies’s fingers tightened around hers—a firm, deliberate pressure.
She glanced down, startled.
Then she heard it, low enough that only she could catch it.
—Match my lead.
Her heartbeat quickened. He’s improvising again.
She forced herself to breathe, straightened her back, and masked her expression with noble grace.
"Go on," the Earl said, eyes glinting. "I’m curious to see where this leads."
Julies’s tone shifted—no longer casual, but calculating. "You see, my lord... I’m a rather materialistic man. In arranged marriages, I prefer tangible benefits over abstract things like love."
The Earl leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "Oh? And what kind of benefits are we talking about?"
Julies smiled, slow and deliberate. "If Lady Amelia were to become the rightful owner of the Polar Bear Crest, for instance..." He paused for effect, his gaze steady. "...that would be a very appealing benefit for a fiancé, wouldn’t it?"
Amelia’s eyes widened in horror.
What on earth is he thinking?!
She instinctively tightened her grip on his hand, trying to warn him to stop—but it was too late. The words were already out, echoing in the grand chamber like a challenge.
Her father’s expression shifted, ever so slightly. The faint amusement in his eyes sharpened into interest.
"So," the Earl said softly, his voice like silk stretched over steel, "does this mean my daughter is interested in succession?"
Amelia froze.
Julies didn’t miss a beat. "I agreed to the engagement," he said coolly, "because I saw that possibility."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Two sets of eyes turned toward her—one sharp and probing, the other calm but expectant.
Every nerve in her body screamed at her to say no, to end this before it spiraled further. But she couldn’t. Not here. Not now.
So she forced her lips into a faint, composed smile—the kind of smile nobles wear when cornered but refusing to yield.