On Rational Marital Life - Chapter 2

Layla slowly ran her fingers through her hair as she soaked in the steaming bath, washing away the dried tomato juice that clung to her scalp and skin.

As soon as the wedding had concluded, she had been brought to Blake Berman’s estate.

The mansion, which should have been filled with the lively atmosphere of celebration for such a monumental occasion, was eerily quiet, almost funereal in its mood.

There was no grand reception to flaunt the groom’s wealth or to display the lavish gifts sent by the bride’s family. The banquet hall remained unused, void of any festivity or congratulatory remarks.

Through the slightly ajar bathroom door, Layla could hear the voices of the maids tidying up the bedroom.

“Ugh, no matter the situation, how could they let the bride’s dress end up like this?”

“What do we do with it now?”

“What else? Throw it out.”

“What a waste.”

“Then why don’t you take it? Tell them you’ll wear it for your own wedding.”

“W-What? Can I really—”

“Are you crazy? You want to wear this cursed dress?”

“Oh.”

The maid, momentarily blinded by greed, let out a small groan of dismay.

A senior maid who had been attending to Layla in the bathroom cleared her throat loudly.

“Ahem.”

“Oh no, the door’s open! Do you think she heard us?”

Their voices grew hushed before the maids gathered the discarded clothes and left the room, their footsteps retreating into the distance.

Alone in the bath, Layla closed her eyes, her heart heavy. Even the maids couldn’t hide their disdain for her. This house, this marriage, this new life—it already felt suffocating.

The maid attending Layla’s bath stole nervous glances at her. Having worked in noble households before, the maid braced herself, expecting a sharp rebuke from her new mistress.

But Layla had no intention of scolding the maids.

They had called her wedding dress cursed, but she didn’t feel angry.

She was simply too exhausted.

When Layla had stepped out of the carriage earlier, one of the maids had screamed at the sight of her. The once pristine veil and gown, which should have been a dazzling white, were stained red and ruined. The maid, trembling, later confessed that she had briefly feared their new “barbarian” master had drained the life from his bride.

As the bathwater began to cool, Layla slowly rose from the tub. She dried herself off with deliberate, unhurried movements and slipped into a simple shift that reached her ankles. Wrapping a towel around her damp hair, she left the bathroom.

It had been an unbearably long day.

“I’m so tired.”

But her day wasn’t over yet.

“Ah…”

Layla froze. Blake Berman was sitting in her bedroom.

After the wedding ceremony, the two of them had shared a silent carriage ride to the Berman estate. Blake, his arms crossed, had stared into the distance with the air of a man too angry to speak, while Layla, grateful for the quiet, had remained lost in her own thoughts.

The moment they arrived, Blake had disappeared somewhere, leaving Layla to follow a maid to the bedroom. She had assumed that was the end of their interaction for the day.

This, she thought, was what her married life with Blake would be like—separate spaces, unspoken agreements, and carefully maintained distances.

That’s why she was startled to find him here, in what she had already begun to think of as her room.

“Why are you here…?” she asked hesitantly.

Blake raised an eyebrow, his expression as if she were the one behaving oddly.

“It’s our first night,” he said matter-of-factly.

Layla bit her lower lip.

Sensing the tension, the maids quickly gathered their things and scurried out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

It was true that they were now husband and wife, and it would be natural for them to spend their first night together. However, theirs was not a typical arranged marriage. It was a union born out of political necessity, a symbol of a treaty between nations. Blake himself had drawn a clear line, stating from the beginning that it was a purely formal marriage.

“Didn’t you say you… had someone you cared for?” Layla asked cautiously.

“Me?”

The way Blake responded, as if hearing this for the first time, left Layla momentarily stunned. This was supposed to be a loveless marriage. When he’d mentioned someone else in the past, Layla hadn’t been hurt—it had only reaffirmed the lack of romantic expectations between them.

But now, it seemed as though he’d forgotten his own words. Determined to jog his memory, she reminded him.

“You said there was someone waiting for you in Strover.”

“Ah, right. Someone waiting for me.” Blake murmured as though recalling a distant memory.

“And you also said,” Layla continued, her voice quieter now, “that we would divorce in two years. That you’d return to Strover and marry her… and that I could do as I pleased—meet someone else, or whatever.”

Blake didn’t deny her words. Instead, he simply remained silent, sipping his wine.

Layla licked her dry lips, forcing herself to push on.

“That’s why I thought this was a purely formal marriage. I didn’t think we’d… spend the night together as husband and wife.”

“Ah, so you thought we wouldn’t have sex?” Blake said bluntly.

The directness of the word made Layla lower her gaze.

He’d said it as casually as if he were naming a fruit. Layla, who had always felt the weight of that word when spoken, was startled by how unremarkable it sounded coming from him.

“When I said you could do as you pleased with other men, I meant after the divorce,” Blake clarified, his tone firm but almost casual. “For now, you’re my wife.”

The logic felt a bit forced, but his confident demeanor made it seem oddly reasonable. He poured himself another glass of wine and took a sip, exuding nonchalance.

Layla couldn’t help but recall their first meeting, when Blake had downed wine like beer, leaving her appalled at his lack of table manners. Tonight, however, he poured just the right amount, swirled the glass lightly, and savored the aroma before drinking.

Had he been practicing? Layla wondered, momentarily distracted by his subtle transformation.

But her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by Blake’s next remark, spoken with that same infuriatingly shameless air.

“And didn’t I say it before? Blake Berman fell in love with Layla Edgestone at first sight.”

The claim that “Blake Berman fell in love with Layla Edgestone at first sight” had been nothing more than a convenient excuse.

It was a justification crafted to explain to the public why Layla had been chosen over her younger sister.

No noblewoman of Gramus wanted to marry Blake, a colonel of an enemy nation. Pairing him with Layla—a woman whose reputation had already been tarnished—was nothing more than a calculated arrangement.

This was a marriage born of mutual interests, devoid of love.

Still, now that they were married, Layla couldn’t deny her role as his wife. It was her duty.

“You are representing Gramus in this marriage,” her mother, Lewinda, had told her countless times. “Make sure you never draw attention to yourself again. Live quietly, as if you don’t exist. Even if your husband strikes you, endure it.”

“Don’t let yourself be divorced and disgrace the family once more. No matter what happens. Do you understand, Layla?”

Her father had echoed similar sentiments, phrased differently but carrying the same weight of expectation.

“…Yes. I understand.”

Layla set aside the towel she’d been using to dry her hair. She climbed onto the bed and adjusted her chemise to modestly cover her legs. The thin fabric, however, still revealed the outline of her undergarments and bare skin underneath.

But Layla was too exhausted to feel embarrassed. She just wanted the night to be over.

Without saying anything further, she lay back on the bed, her arms resting stiffly at her sides. Her eyes closed, and she waited in silence.

The room grew still.

Blake, standing beside the bed, stared down at her with an incredulous expression.

“What are you doing?” he finally asked.

“I’m… ready,” Layla replied hesitantly.

“Ready for what?”

“The… first night,” she said awkwardly.

“This?”

Blake let out a disbelieving laugh.

“So, you’re saying I should spread your legs, shove myself inside, thrust a few times, finish quickly, and call it a night?”

Layla’s face twisted in discomfort, her carefully maintained composure faltering at his vulgar words.

“Y-You need to… refine your language.”

“In this situation, any man would find it ridiculous and say the same thing,” Blake retorted with a sneer.

His mocking gaze bore into her as his expression darkened.

“How little must you think of me…” he muttered under his breath.

Layla didn’t quite understand his words and asked for clarification, only to be met with an even cruder response.

“You think that just because a woman spreads her legs and shows her body, a man will instantly get hard and pounce like an animal? Men aren’t lust-crazed beasts.”

“P-Please, mind your words.”

Layla’s expression froze at the crude words Blake uttered, words she had never said aloud herself. Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

In that moment, she fully understood why people referred to him as a barbarian. Blake spoke without hesitation, disregarding any sense of propriety.

“What? What else am I supposed to call a cock? Should I describe it as a massive club meant to thrust between your legs? Or maybe I should use some noble metaphor and call it a branch? Does using fancier words make it any less of a cock?”

“Blake Berman!” Layla snapped, her voice rising as she glared at him.

“At least you know your husband’s name. Get up.”

His commanding tone and the way he looked down at her grated on her nerves. For a brief moment, Layla met his gaze, defiant. But then, a heavy sigh escaped her lips.

Today had been an unbearably long day.

From the early hours of the morning, she had bathed and endured massages with fragrant oils to prepare for the ceremony. Her mother, Lewinda, had insisted she drink only a little water, forbidding her from eating anything, claiming it would prevent swelling.

The corset had been laced so tightly it felt like her ribs were being crushed, and she had been forced to stand perfectly upright in her gown to avoid wrinkling the fabric. Hours of this had left her lightheaded, her body aching from exhaustion.

Her vision swam for a moment, and she squeezed her eyes shut before opening them again.

She just wanted to rest. Arguing with this man, trading words in a clash of pride and irritation—it was draining her further. Even feeling angry required energy she no longer had.

“Stop it,” she said softly, her voice almost a plea.

She understood the anger people felt toward her. While she hadn’t committed the crimes she was accused of, the situation had unfolded in such a way that denying it seemed futile. Witnesses and fabricated evidence had piled up against her, and no one had believed her protests.

She’d been disgraced, abandoned, and stripped of her engagement. And now, she had been married off to Blake Berman—a man scorned and avoided by everyone in Gramus.

Wasn’t it enough? Hadn’t she paid for her so-called sins by now?

“If you don’t want to, then we don’t have to,” Layla said, her tone resolute but weary. “I understand if you’re angry with me and feel the need to take it out, but I can’t endure further humiliation.

“No one would find it strange if we didn’t spend the night together. There’s no need to force yourself into this if I’m such an unpleasant partner to you.

“There’s no reason for us to have children, so there’s no obligation. …I’ll go to another room.”

As Layla turned toward the door, her arm was suddenly seized.

Blake’s hand was easily twice the size of hers, his knuckles rough and his palm hardened with calluses. His grip was unyielding, twisting her skin with raw, unrefined strength.

“Ah!” Layla gasped in pain, but Blake didn’t let go. His sharp, predatory gaze locked onto her as if he were afraid she might escape.

Something in her words had clearly struck a nerve. His eyes, now devoid of mockery, burned with a fierceness far more menacing than his earlier crude remarks.

It reminded her of the wolves she had once seen on a royal hunting trip, their snarling faces and feral instincts barely restrained.

With a harsh tug, Blake pulled her closer, his breath hot against her face.

“Your room is here,” he said, his voice low and biting. “Whether or not we have a child is none of your concern. Or do you already despise the idea of bearing a barbarian’s child so much that it makes you sick?”

“You’re hurting me,” Layla managed, her voice trembling. “Let me go.”

Her arm throbbed, the pain sharp enough to make her feel like her bone might snap. Blake ignored her protests, his jaw clenching audibly as he ground his teeth.

“Even if you resist, you’re still my wife, and we’re still married,” he growled.

“Hah…” Layla gasped as his hand suddenly moved to her hair. Her scalp burned as he yanked it, forcing her face up to meet his.

Before she could even cry out, his lips crashed down onto hers.

The kiss was forceful, suffocating, and entirely without tenderness. Her lips were crushed under his, forced to part further as he pressed harder. The wet, searing heat of his mouth overwhelmed her.

His breath, heavy and hot, poured over her skin. The unfamiliar sensation of his saliva dampening her lips and his movements left her more stunned than embarrassed.

Smack!

Layla’s hand flew across his face before she could even think.

The slap echoed in the room, her palm stinging from the impact. Her chest heaved as her heart pounded furiously, adrenaline surging through her veins.

For the first time in her life, she had struck another person.

Although Blake’s actions had been aggressive, the realization that she had retaliated with violence left her shaken. Her trembling fingers clenched into fists as she tried to steady herself.

Blake slowly turned his head, running the back of his hand across his reddened cheek.

Then, to her astonishment, he smirked.

His eyes, gleaming like a predator’s in the dark, sparkled with a dangerous mix of amusement and challenge.

“Now, that makes things interesting.”