Between Destruction and Pleasure - Chapter 1

In the lavishly decorated ballroom, amidst the elegant melodies of the string quartet, a sharp voice cut through the air.

“Oh dear! My hand slipped!”

Catherine stared blankly at the red stain spreading across her dress. For a moment, she was frozen, incredulous. Then, her head snapped up, her crimson eyes blazing.

The culprit, Evelyn, was already attempting to slink away, her words a flimsy excuse.

“Come back here, you,” Catherine commanded, her voice cold and sharp. “You think you can just walk away?”

“Y-Your Highness! It was an accident, I swear!” Evelyn stammered, flinching under the weight of Catherine’s glare. But her defiance was still evident in the way she lifted her chin, meeting Catherine’s gaze head-on.

Catherine’s lips curled into a faint, icy smirk. Without breaking eye contact, she picked up a champagne bottle from the table with deliberate slowness.

“Oh? An accident, you say?”

Crash!

The bottle flew from her hand and shattered spectacularly against a nearby marble column.

The sharp sound reverberated through the room, and Evelyn froze, trembling. The shards glinted like jagged stars on the polished floor.

“Oops,” Catherine said lightly. “Looks like my hand slipped too.”

“Y-Your Highness…! That’s outrageous! Such vulgar behavior…” Evelyn’s voice quivered as she protested, though her confidence wavered under the princess’s predatory smirk.

Click, click, click.

The measured sound of Catherine’s heels echoed ominously as she closed the distance between them. Evelyn shrank back instinctively, but Catherine stopped just short, looming over her.

“Vulgar, am I?” Catherine said, her voice low and dangerous. “You’ve just insulted the royal family. Surely I have every right to punish you right here, don’t I?”

“W-What are you—Ah!”

Catherine’s open hand whipped across Evelyn’s cheek with a sharp, resounding slap.

Smack!

The sound rang out twice before Evelyn staggered, clutching her flushed, swelling cheek. She glared back at Catherine, but her anger couldn’t override her fear.

“No matter how much of a princess you are, you can’t behave like this! Hitting someone over a mere dress?!”

“Still talking back?” Catherine’s voice was laced with mockery. “It’s obvious you spilled that wine on purpose. What, you thought I wouldn’t notice we’re wearing similar dresses and that you wanted to sabotage me?”

Evelyn’s lips quivered, but she stayed silent. Around them, the other nobles watched the unfolding drama with undisguised interest, their expressions a mixture of amusement and anticipation.

“If you show up in the same dress as the princess, the least you could do is leave and change immediately,” Catherine continued, her words cutting. “And instead, you have the audacity to ruin my dress with your clumsiness?”

Evelyn’s brazenness, as well as Catherine’s infamous temper, was nothing more than entertainment for the onlookers. For them, this wasn’t a scandal—it was a spectacle.

Not a single noble surrounding the commotion seemed inclined to intervene.

“Sniff…!”

Then, Evelyn, who had been defiantly glaring moments earlier, suddenly dropped her gaze and collapsed to the floor, her expression pitiful as tears streamed down her face.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Your Highness. It was an accident. Please, forgive me,” she pleaded, her voice trembling.

The sudden shift in her demeanor made Catherine scowl. She spun around and saw the reason for Evelyn’s theatrical change: the First Prince, Neron, was striding toward them.

Neron grabbed Catherine’s wrist roughly, turning her to face him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in a cold, clipped tone.

Catherine flinched but quickly masked her reaction with a defiant glare, her crimson eyes blazing. Her wrist throbbed under his grip, but she refused to let her pain show.

“That woman ruined my dress!” she retorted, lifting her wine-stained gown to show him. “Just look at this!”

But Neron didn’t even glance at the dress. His icy gaze remained fixed on Catherine, sharp and unyielding.

“Stop causing a scene and return to your chambers,” he commanded. “I’ll inform His Majesty of this incident and let him decide your punishment.”

“Brother—!”

“If you make any more trouble, I won’t overlook it.”

His voice was resolute, leaving no room for argument.

Seizing the opportunity, Evelyn interjected with a trembling, tearful voice.

“It’s fine, Your Highness. It was my mistake, after all. I’ll accept any punishment you see fit.”

“I apologize on her behalf, Lady Evelyn,” Neron said, his tone suddenly soft and conciliatory.

Unlike his cold treatment of Catherine, he addressed Evelyn with disarming gentleness before leading her out of the room.

Catherine watched them go, her chest tightening with frustration. Yet as Neron disappeared from view, she let out a silent sigh of relief. At least this meant she could finally leave the ball.

The chatter around her, however, was impossible to ignore.

“She slapped someone in the middle of the party. What a temper.”

“Who could be surprised? It’s no wonder she’s the royal family’s embarrassment.”

“This isn’t the first time. Didn’t she pull someone’s hair last time? Hohoho.”

“Like mother, like daughter. Blood doesn’t lie, after all.”

Behind fluttering fans, the nobles exchanged snakelike glances and whispered barbs.

When Catherine’s sharp crimson eyes swept toward them, they quickly averted their gazes and moved away. Evelyn, however, lingered, her lips curling into a triumphant smile.

Catherine was, after all, a princess of the Otrein Empire. But that title was in name only. No one truly respected her.

In the Otrein Empire, all legitimate members of the royal family carried the middle name Eden, derived from the surname of the first empress. It was a name granted exclusively to the descendants of imperial consorts.

Catherine’s full name, however, was Catherine Bennett Linsward—a stark reminder that her mother had been different.

Her mother was no empress or noblewoman, merely a fleeting dalliance in the emperor’s life. Catherine didn’t even know if her mother was alive or dead. All she knew was that her surname had been Bennett, and like her, she had possessed silver hair.

The emperor and her royal siblings all had golden hair—a symbol of the imperial family and their pride.

But Catherine’s silver hair marked her as an outsider. A blemish.

Despite the Empress’s chestnut-brown hair, all her children had inherited golden locks. It was peculiar, but no one questioned it; they accepted it as a natural manifestation of imperial superiority.

Catherine’s silver hair, however, made her stand out even more. She had once wondered if things would have been different had she been born with golden hair.

But there wasn’t a single noble family in the Otrein Empire with the surname Bennett. That could only mean one thing: her mother was either a commoner or of an even lower station.

The wine stain on her dress had been Evelyn’s doing. Though Evelyn claimed it was an accident, anyone could see it was deliberate—a move designed to spark conflict among noblewomen. And then Evelyn had tried to walk away as if nothing had happened.

So Catherine had dealt with it herself.

That should be enough for today, she thought.

Though she could feel the scornful gazes drilling into her back, she was used to it. Hiding her trembling legs, Catherine turned on her heel and strode out of the ballroom with feigned composure.

From the balcony on the second floor of the hall, a group of noblemen watched the scene unfold below. They puffed on cigars, trading hushed commentary.

“Still as disruptive as ever, that troublesome princess,” one remarked with a click of his tongue.

“She’s the so-called Ice Princess, yet tonight she’s all fire and fury. Hardly fitting for a princess, wouldn’t you say, Duke Williams?”

Even men weren’t above gossiping. The noblemen, who prided themselves on their so-called gentlemanly status, relished mocking Princess Catherine at every opportunity.

But Lucas Williams, the Duke, remained silent. His companions seemed used to his reticence and soon resumed their chatter.

Earl River Mason, unable to hide his lecherous grin, chimed in, “Still, you can’t deny she’s beautiful. Even those fierce eyes of hers have their charm…”

“True enough,” another agreed. “And look at those hips beneath that narrow waist. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Maybe I should try my luck. Imagine becoming a prince consort.”

“Better think twice,” a third countered with a snort. “It’s fine if you’re just playing with fire, but getting involved with that princess could ruin you. Olivia would be a much safer bet.”

“Careful,” someone joked, laughing. “You might end up slapped like Lady Evelyn.”

As the group chuckled, Lucas flicked the ash from his cigar. The glowing ember and ashes landed squarely on Earl Mason’s polished, expensive shoe.

“Ah—!”

The glossy enamel was marred instantly, leaving a clear scuff. Startled, Mason jerked his foot back, flailing in surprise.

Lucas raised a hand with a wry smile.

“Oh dear. My hand slipped.”

“Haha… Well, it happens,” Mason replied awkwardly, his strained laugh betraying his frustration.

The shoes were no doubt costly, but Earl Mason didn’t dare express his irritation. After all, his relationship with Lucas Williams was worth far more than a hundred pairs of shoes.

“It’s risky to consider her for a wife,” another noble remarked, steering the conversation back to Catherine. “Look at poor Evelyn tonight—she got what she deserved but still, it was brutal.”

“Exactly. A noblewoman can’t retaliate against a princess. It’s the lady who suffers in the end.”

Once again, the focus of their gossip circled back to Catherine. She was, as always, an inescapable subject of conversation.

Catherine’s stunning beauty and her lofty title sharply contrasted with her infamous behavior and vicious reputation. It made her a perennial topic of ridicule.

“I’m calling it a night,” Lucas said, stubbing out his cigar and rising from his seat.

“What? Leaving already?”

He ignored their protests, his expression indifferent as he left the balcony and strode out of the ballroom.

Only after Lucas disappeared from view did River Mason mutter a low curse under his breath, his resentment finally slipping out.

“Damn it, my shoes are ruined. That arrogant bastard didn’t even bother to apologize,” River Mason grumbled, glaring at the scuffed enamel on his prized footwear.

“What would you expect? A man born a bastard and suddenly made a duke wouldn’t exactly be well-versed in manners,” another noble sneered.

“Shh, quiet,” one of them warned, glancing around nervously. He gestured subtly toward the first floor. “The Duke’s aide is still here.”

Sure enough, Count Adolf Taylor, Lucas Williams’ right-hand man, with his striking red hair, was standing near the ballroom’s entrance. Though he appeared to be minding his own business, the nobles knew better than to underestimate him.

The group exchanged wary looks, their earlier bravado fading into silence. No one wanted their careless words to reach Lucas Williams’ ears through his ever-watchful aide.