“You didn’t have to come all the way up here, Francesca. It would have been much more comfortable if I had come to you instead,” Miller said, his voice trailing off with a hint of hesitation. He stopped himself mid-sentence, careful not to offend her as she settled onto the sofa in his second-floor study.
Francesca let out a soft scoff, her lips curving into a smile. “Oh, come now, Miller. We’ve been married for nearly three months. I’m not so easily offended.”
She looked at him pointedly. “Do you remember what you said on our way to the viscounty? You admitted that you weren't well-versed in administration or politics. You revealed your weakness and accepted it for what it was.”
Her smile softened as she watched him. “I am the same, Miller. I can also accept my weaknesses and move forward. I know I am disabled; there is no point in tiptoeing around the obvious.”
Miller cleared his throat, a somber expression crossing his face. “Even so, it still hurts to hear the words, doesn't it? It’s the same for me whenever I visit other nobles and they look down on me for being a former commoner.”
He paused, meeting her eyes. “You don’t have to accept the insults; you just have to acknowledge the reality.”
A brief silence filled the room. A faint blush crept onto Francesca’s cheeks as she looked away. “I… I see. Regardless, let’s get to the matter I came here to discuss.”
“The rumors,” Miller replied, his expression instantly becoming serious.
“I knew this would happen the moment you proposed the changes,” he sighed, pulling a document from one of his desk drawers. “Aunt Maria’s loyalists weren't going to take this lying down. I’ve prepared some rebuttals to set the facts straight and refute the rumors painting you as a villain.”
Francesca watched him, a small smile playing on her lips at how much he cared for her. Then, she spoke firmly. “No. We won’t be doing that.”
She gestured to Stella, who stepped forward and handed her several folders. Miller frowned, confused. “What? We can’t just let the rumors spread as they are. It will pressure us into a settlement with those employees we rightfully fired… even if they are entirely in the wrong.”
“I understand the stakes, Miller,” Francesca replied. “We are just beginning to stabilize. Rumors of unfair contracts and wrongful dismissals will tarnish the reputation we’ve worked hard to just start to build. That is exactly why we cannot try to refute them.”
“Why not?” Miller asked, his voice calm but genuinely perplexed.
“Misinformation is a very sharp weapon,” Francesca explained, fixing a stray lock of hair. “Once it spreads, trying to defend yourself with facts only makes you look more guilty. The scandal is all people remember.”
She leaned forward slightly. “It doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong. This tactic ensures that even after the facts are out, a stain of doubt remains in people’s hearts.”
Stella chimed in, nodding in agreement. “It’s true, your lordship. Years ago, a rumor spread that the Second Prince used to make young girls smoke shady cigarettes. Even though it was proven false, girls are still afraid to be alone with him to this day.”
Miller let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples. “So… there’s no way to counter it without long-term damage?”
Francesca’s smirk returned, sharper this time. She waved the documents in her hand.
“Oh, there is a way,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. “We’re going to spread misinformation of our own!”
Randell walked through the bustling central market of the Ironwood City with his chest puffed out, a subtle smirk hidden beneath his well-groomed mustache. He had done his part. He had whispered in the right ears at the local tavern, slipped notes to the disgruntled former maids, and ensured that the "truth" about Francesca’s cold-blooded contract restructuring was the talk of the town.
By now, the Viscountess should be a pariah. The people should be whispering about her "tyranny" and "greed." He thought as he stopped by a fruit stall, pretending to inspect some apples while straining his ears to catch the conversation of two nearby blacksmiths.
"—and they say she didn't even look at the ledgers," one man whispered, leaning in close.
Randell leaned in slightly, his heart fluttering with anticipation. Yes, tell him how she ignored the years of service. Tell him how she’s a monster!.
"They say," the blacksmith continued, his eyes wide, "that the Viscountess didn't fire them because of the money. She fired them because she’s actually a high-ranking priestess of a forbidden cult, and the new contracts were actually soul-binding rituals that would turn them into stone statues for her garden."
Randell blinked. What?
"No, no," the other man interjected, waving a hand dismissively. "That’s not what I heard. My cousin works near the North Gate. He said she fired the staff because she’s actually three children standing on each other’s shoulders under that dress, they were pretending to be an adult!"
Randell’s apple nearly slipped from his hand. Three children? In a dress? What in the world are they talking about!
He hurried away, his face flushing a light pink. It’s fine, he told himself. Rumors morph. But the core of the injustice will remain. Someone will mention the wrongful contract restructuring.
He moved toward the Golden Cask, the most popular tavern for the territory's laborers. He sat at a corner table, ordering a small ale and waiting. Within minutes, a group of former stable hands, men he knew are the biggest gossipers around been sat at a long table.
"It’s a disgrace," one of the men shouted, slamming his mug down.
Here we go, Randell thought, feeling a surge of triumph. The outrage begins.
"That butler worked there for five years!" the man continued. "And she has the nerve to tell him that he is being let go? Just because he wouldn't participate in her mandatory 'Midnight Moon-Dancing' sessions? He is a man of dignity! I won't wear a tutu for any Viscountess, no matter how many Shella she offers!"
"A tutu?" Randell hissed under his breath. "I never said anything about a tutu!"
"He got off easy," another stable man groaned. "Apparently she told another one that he was fired because his ears were 'too aerodynamic' and he was accidentally stealing the castle’s oxygen when he ran down the hallways. She said she had to restructure the staff to ensure there was enough air for the Viscount to breathe."
The table erupted in laughter, some of it mocking, some of it genuinely entertained.
"They say her cane isn't even a cane," a woman at the next table added with a giggle. "It’s a specialized vacuum. She uses it to suck the 'laziness' out of the air, and if you don't have enough 'labor-energy' in your blood, the cane points at you and makes a honking noise. That’s how she chose who to fire!"
Randell felt a cold sweat prickling at his hairline. This was wrong. This was all horribly, catastrophically wrong. He had spread rumors along with other former monthly employees that she was a calculating, manipulative noblewoman who used legal loopholes to ruin lives. He had given them facts with a bit of exaggeration about the Ironwood family’s debt and her father’s reputation.
Instead, the town was treating the situation like a comedy act.
If I go to Alan Hevel now and tell him the plan is working, Randell thought, his hand trembling as he reached for his ale, he’ll think I’m an idiot. But if I try to correct them... if I tell them she actually used the 'Article 4: Performance Review' clause to legally terminate us… it will be revealed that i was the one who spread the rumors..
He looked around the room. People were laughing. They were making jokes about "aerodynamic ears" and "soul-binding gardens." The serious, heavy atmosphere of a "rebellion against a tyrant viscountess" he had hoped was completely smothered by a blanket of utter absurdity.
The original rumor, the true one, was now just a boring footnote to a story about a woman who used a magic vacuum cane to hunt lizard-people.
She did this, Randell realized, his stomach sinking. She didn't fight the fire. She just poured so much colored glitter on it that no one can see the flames anymore.
He slumped in his chair, suddenly feeling very small. The candle in his window now seemed like a very dangerous mistake. If he tried to sue her for "wrongful restructuring" now, he would have no public support to pressure the Viscounty into the large settlement he had envisioned.
Randell stood up, his brain working overtime to salvage the situation. Then, a sharp realization struck him. “That’s it!”
He paced the small space, his eyes gleaming. “If I can’t get a settlement from her, I just need compensation some other way. I can sell out Alan Hevel! If I push the blame onto him using the letter I still have, I can present it to the Viscount or Viscountess as proof of a conspiracy. I’ll get a reward for my 'loyalty' instead!”