ONE NIGHT STAND WITH HOT DUKE-Chapter 116: It’s not about the meatloaf

The palace hall was still filled with the sound of debate when Demian received the report.

He stood with one hand resting on the back of his chair, his expression calm, though his brows were faintly drawn together a sign only those closest to him could read. The castle messenger stood several steps behind him, bowing deeply, his voice trembling despite his attempt to remain professional.

"Lady Valerie requests a meat-filled roll from the outer district, Your Grace."

Demian turned halfway. "Go yourself," he said curtly. "I’m busy."

The messenger hesitated, but did not retreat. "Forgive me, Your Grace. Lady Valerie said... she wants you to be the one who buys it."

Demian let out a quiet breath, clearly impatient. "What difference does it make whether I buy it or you?" he said, his tone cooling. "It’s just bread with meat."

The messenger swallowed, then forced himself to speak. "Forgive me, Your Grace. But... if you are the one who goes, I believe you will avoid trouble."

That made Demian turn fully around. His gaze sharpened, pressing.

"What trouble?"

The messenger bowed even lower. "I only relay the words, Your Grace."

For a moment, Demian said nothing. His eyes flicked toward the council table, toward the faces waiting for him to decide matters of consequence borders, taxes, treaties. All of it important. Always important.

"She wouldn’t know who bought it," he said at last, cold and certain. "Go. Deliver it to her. Say that I bought it."

Without waiting for a response, Demian stepped back into the hall, as if the matter were settled. Behind him, the messenger Juan released a long breath before turning and hurrying away.

When Juan returned to the castle, his steps felt heavier than before.

Valerie sat on the edge of the bed, her body wrapped in a thin blanket. Her face was pale, her lips dry, her eyes tired yet her gaze immediately fixed on the parcel in Juan’s hands.

"His Grace the Duke still has matters to attend to," Juan said carefully, bowing. "He asked me to deliver this to you."

Valerie looked at the bread for a moment. Then her eyes lifted, meeting Juan’s directly.

"He didn’t buy it," she said quietly.

Juan froze. "Forgive me, my lady. His Grace the Duke did buy it."

A subtle change crossed Valerie’s face not anger, but something sharper and colder: disappointment, as though something fragile had just cracked.

"Give it back to him," she said softly but firmly. "Tell him... I will go and buy it myself."

Juan felt his throat go dry. "My lady—"

"Now," Valerie cut in. She turned her face away, suppressing the nausea rising again. "I will go myself."

Juan bowed deeply. "As you wish, my lady." He turned and hurried away, his heart pounding knowing he carried news that would not be well received.

Demian had just returned to his seat when Juan appeared again, slightly out of breath. Several heads turned, disturbed.

Demian looked at him, his gaze hardening. "What is it now?"

Juan swallowed. "Lady Valerie says... she will go and buy the bread herself, Your Grace."

The words fell like stone.

Demian stared at Juan for a long time. "She said that?" he asked quietly, his voice low and dangerous.

"Yes, Your Grace," Juan replied softly. "The lady intends to go herself."

For a moment, the hall seemed to recede. All that remained in Demian’s mind was the image of Valerie weak, nauseated, yet stubborn. And for the first time, he felt something he could not mask with logic or rank.

He stood abruptly.

His chair scraped sharply against the marble floor.

But after only a few steps, Asher caught his arm. "Demian," he said calmly but firmly, "the meeting isn’t finished."

Demian turned, his jaw set. "Tell the Emperor," he said shortly, "to continue without me."

Asher hesitated, reading Demian’s face, then let him go.

Demian strode away, his pace fast and resolute. Not as a duke leaving a council meeting, but as a man who had finally recognized his mistake.

This was not about bread. It was about a small choice he had dismissed. About a woman who had asked him to come not with anger, but with fragile honesty.

And this time, he had no intention of being late again.

Demian strode swiftly down the palace corridor, his cloak flaring behind him, pulled by the length of his steps. Juan was nearly jogging at his back, struggling to keep pace with the duke, who was clearly not in a good mood.

Suddenly, Demian stopped.

Juan almost ran into him.

Demian turned slowly, his gaze sharp and cold. "So this," he said in a low voice, "is what you call trouble?"

Juan swallowed. Cold sweat slid down his temple. "Yes, Your Grace."

Demian exhaled harshly, barely restraining his irritation. "What difference does it make if I buy it or someone else does?" he said, his voice rising slightly. "It’s the same meat bread. She only has to eat it."

Juan fell silent for a moment. Then, with a courage unusual for a mere messenger, he answered honestly, "I do not know, Your Grace."

Demian frowned.

Juan continued, his voice softer but earnest. "However... it would be wiser to follow the wishes of a pregnant woman."

Demian halted again.

He looked at Juan, this time with an expression of disbelief mixed with surprise. "Why is that?" he asked curtly.

Juan took a deep breath, as if risking his very head. "If she becomes angry," he said carefully, "Your Grace may face anger many times over."

Demian let out a short laugh humorless. "Don’t frighten me with nonsense."

But Juan shook his head slowly. "This is not meant to frighten you, Your Grace," he said seriously. "A pregnant woman carries her child within her. And all the strange requests sudden cravings, abrupt desires, even shifting emotions are often said to be the wishes of the child."

Demian clicked his tongue. "That’s a myth."

Juan did not argue. He merely bowed his head slightly. "Perhaps," he said. "But I have served many noble houses for a long time. And every man who dismissed such small matters... always regretted it later."

Demian fell silent.

His pace slowed, then stopped completely. His face remained hard, but something shifted slowly behind his eyes not anger, but a restlessness he refused to name.

Valerie came to his mind.

Her pale face. Her sharp tone, born not of anger, but of exhaustion. The way she had asked not commanded, not demanded only wanting him to come.

"The baby’s wish," Demian murmured softly, almost to himself.

Juan heard it and chose to remain silent.

Demian drew a long breath, his fist clenching and then loosening. "You know," he said at last, calmer but weighted, "I face emperors, councils, and war. Yet somehow... this feels more complicated."

Juan dared to lift his head slightly. "Because this is not about power, Your Grace," he said quietly. "It’s about being present."