[Leif’s POV—ThorenVald Estate—Later]

Alvar lay on the bed beside me, one arm under my head, the other gently brushing my hair back as if afraid I might crumble again.

I sniffed once.

Then snuggled closer.

He let out a small, helpless laugh—the kind that melted somewhere deep in my chest—and cupped my face.

"Gosh... look at those swollen eyes," he murmured, thumbing beneath them gently. "It looks like someone punched you."

"You should thank yourself," I muttered.

His mouth twitched.

"...I deserved that," he sighed, pressing a soft kiss near my temple before continuing to wipe my face carefully—like handling something fragile.

When my breathing evened out again, he pulled me even closer, tucking me right under his chin. The warmth of his chest, his fingers brushing my back in slow circles—everything made me want to melt.

"Alright," he murmured after a moment, voice slipping into a teasing tone. "Stop pouting and tell me something."

He pointed toward the battlefield on the floor.

The LEGOs.

"How," he asked seriously, "did you discover those?"

I blinked.

Then I lifted my head slightly to look at him.

"The LEGOs?" I asked innocently.

"Yes," Alvar repeated, narrowing his eyes like a battle-worn general recounting trauma. "Where did you get those cursed little bricks of suffering?"

I blinked innocently.

"...Alina has a bucket of them."

Every trace of blood left his face.

"A... bucket?" he whispered, voice trembling like a man speaking of war crimes.

I nodded casually. "She wanted to try some new games. So I asked Thalein to make some when I was about to leave for the capital—right before our engagement."

He stared at me like I’d confessed to summoning demons.

"She always plays with them," I added with a shrug. "It’s her favorite game now."

Alvar slowly turned toward the ceiling.

Dead inside.

"Leif," he said in the monotone of a man who has given up on life, "do not launch them on the market."

"...Why?"

"Because every husband in the kingdom will die, that’s why."

I snorted. Then chuckled. Then full-on laughed into his chest.

He let out a dramatic groan. "You’re laughing. Of course you’re laughing. I nearly met the gods and my beloved laughs."

I snuggled closer, letting my eyes flutter shut as his heartbeat warmed my cheek. His hand rubbed my back in slow, soothing circles.

After a moment, he murmured, "Do you feel good?"

"Mhm..." I hummed drowsily. "Warm."

I felt him smirk without seeing it. His chest rumbled with mischief.

"...Then," he whispered, lowering his voice, "can I have a kiss?"

My eyes snapped open. "No."

He froze.

"What? Why?" he croaked, incredulous.

"I’m still angry," I mumbled stubbornly, curling into a tighter ball against him like a spoiled cat. "You are not allowed to touch me or kiss me before our wedding night."

He stiffened.

"Wh—Leif—"

I held up a finger without opening my eyes.

"Wedding. Night."

He sounded personally attacked. "Are you—punishing me with celibacy?"

"Yes."

He inhaled sharply. "That is cruel."

"Good," I muttered.

He stared. I ignored him. He stared harder. I still ignored him.

Then—without another word—he wrapped his arms around me, pulled me against his chest, and buried his face softly into my hair.

We didn’t argue after that. We didn’t talk much either. We just... held each other. For minutes.

Then hours.

Then the entire day.

Wrapped up in blankets, limbs tangled, breaths calm, his warmth pressed against my back while I drifted between half-sleep and quiet thought.

No kisses.No touching beyond cuddles.

Just peaceful, quiet closeness. For one whole day, I allowed myself to simply exist beside him.

***

[The Next Day—Wedding Fever Begins]

I woke up the next morning with my head still on his arm and his hand still resting on my waist. And for the first time in days—I felt excited.

The wedding was two days away. The preparations were in full swing. Alina had already decorated half the hallway with ribbons shaped like dragons.

And for some reason—despite all the messy emotions—I couldn’t stop smiling. But while I was enjoying the excitement... The capital city was NOT.

Because apparently, our "simple wedding" had turned into a historical event.

A political one.

A social one.

A SCANDAL.

Everywhere news traveled, nobles began gossiping like their lives depended on it.

Some supported us passionately: "Love is love! Even two men should be allowed to marry!"

Some were dramatic: "This is revolutionary!"

Some were melting: "Grand Duke Alvar loves him so much—he defied tradition for him—this is TRUE romance!"

And then... There were the others:

"TWO MEN? Marrying?"

"This is a taint to the male lineage—!"

"What kind of heirs—?"

"HOW DO TWO MEN EVEN HAVE SEX?!"

spoken in the most dignified, noble tone imaginable.

What should’ve been a simple ceremony became, THE BIGGEST SOCIETAL DEBATE OF THE YEAR, all around the newspapers.

Nobles fighting. Politicians yelling. Scholars writing philosophical essays about "male womb."

And me?

I didn’t give a damn.

I focused on business.

On Raventon. On rebuilding the dam. On making silk. On greenhouse projects.

Let them scream. Money is quieter. And smarter.

Trivium Core Stone Demand Skyrockets

And speaking of money—

"WHAT..." I blinked at Baron Sigurd. "...a request from neighboring kingdoms ?"

He nodded gravely, holding a mountain-like stack of documents.

"Yes, my lord. We received enormous purchase orders—from two neighboring kingdoms. Both want full shipments of Trivium Core Stones."

My mouth fell open. "We... we’re getting international demand now?"

"Yes, my lord."

"BECAUSE of my marriage rumors?"

"Most likely, my lord."

"People really said, ’Two men getting married? Let us buy rocks.’"

He coughed politely. "...Economics is strange, my lord."

"Clearly."

Because the demand was skyrocketing—so much that our current stockpile looked tiny.

Sigurd cleared his throat delicately. "My lord... this is a massive opportunity to expand beyond our borders. To make Frojnholm known across continents."

I nodded slowly.

"It is. But..."

I frowned, rubbing my temple.

"We might not have enough core stones for both foreign deals and

our greenhouse project. Trivium Stones may appear a lot, but it’s not like they rain from the sky."

Sigurd nodded. "Yes. Even though Frojnholm has the largest natural deposit... it is finite."

"And we’re already using plenty for internal development."

Not to mention—

Summer was approaching. Demand for cooling stones would increase. Our own stockpile would shrink. And the greenhouse project needed priority.

"Sigurd," I said, inhaling slowly, "we need a plan. A proper allocation strategy."

He nodded. "Yes, my lord. Should I call for a council meeting?"

"Yes, but in the afternoon. I need to consider a few things."

And by few things, I meant:

How to expand production, avoid shortages, and not cause Frojnholm to collapse under its own success.

Because apparently—Getting married to Alvar came with economic consequences too.

Of course.

Of course marrying a Grand Duke meant causing trade shocks.

Before I could even sigh—

KNOCK! KNOCK!

The door cracked open.

"My lord..." Nick peeked his head inside like a shy cat.

I smiled. "Come in, Nick."

He entered carrying a flat wooden tray, covered neatly with a silk cloth and... smelling faintly of herbs and cucumber?

"Lord Eryndor has sent you the beauty mask, as requested," Nick reported.

My eyes sparkled. "Oh? Eryndor succeeded?"

Nick nodded proudly. "After three burned batches, two explosions, and one incident involving fermented lotus... yes, my lord. They are now safe."

I looked at the tray like it carried holy relics.

Because on it—were small wet beauty sheets.

Soft. Cool. Moisturized. The FIRST of their kind in this world. Something I had bullied Eryndor into making.

"For real?" I whispered in awe. "He actually made them?"

"Yes, my lord."

I lifted the silk cloth reverently.

There they were. Moisturizing beauty masks. Like the ones I used back in my old world, the kind you put on your face and instantly feel like a pampered CEO on vacation.

Nick cleared his throat politely. "Are you going to try one, my lord?"

"Yes," I said with absolute conviction. "I will try one right now. I need to look extra beautiful on my wedding day."

Nick smiled warmly. "You already look beautiful, my lord."

I pretended not to blush.

Baron Sigurd bowed. "Then I shall leave you to your... preparations, my lord."

I waved him off. The moment the door shut, I slumped dramatically into my chair, grabbed the sheet, and carefully placed it over my face.

Cool. Wet. Heavenly.

I patted it gently until it stuck.

"My face," I declared, voice muffled through the mask, "feels blessed."

Nick chuckled softly as he walked behind me and began massaging my shoulders—like the absolute professional angel he was.

"Will this really work, my lord?" he asked skeptically.

"Of course!" I said proudly. "Just wait, Nick. I will glow more than the Sun God himself at this wedding."

He blinked. "Is that... safe?"

"Yes. And fabulous."

Nick snorted a quiet laugh, continuing the massage as I lounged like a noblewoman preparing for a palace ball.

And just like that—With beauty masks, shoulder massages, screaming nobles, economic upheaval, and a wedding approaching faster than my sanity—

The wedding truly arrived.