Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 582: Not As It Seems (Part 7)

After leaving the dining area, Don and Miss Claire moved through a long corridor branching off from the main hall.

The lighting here was softer.

Framed paintings lined both sides of the walls—portraits in oil, landscapes in muted tones, abstract pieces that required more thought than immediate appreciation.

Between them stood miniature sculptures placed atop narrow pedestals: marble busts, bronze figures frozen mid-motion, delicate carvings etched from pale stone.

Their footsteps echoed lightly across the polished floor.

Don slowed near one of the portraits.

A stern-looking man dressed in attire from another era stared outward from the canvas, one hand resting atop a cane.

"Relative?" Don asked casually.

Miss Claire glanced at the painting without stopping.

"Great-grandfather," she replied. "He believed expressions were a liability."

Don studied the rigid jawline in the portrait.

"Family resemblance," he said.

She did not look at him.

But her lips curved faintly.

They continued walking.

At another painting—a large abstract piece filled with sweeping dark strokes and a single streak of gold cutting through the center—Don paused again.

"And this one?" he asked. "What’s it meant to be?"

"Conflict," she answered simply. "Or perhaps ambition. The artist could never decide."

Don nodded slowly, though he wasn’t convinced either explanation satisfied him.

The days were running thin.

His internal deadline loomed quietly.

He had approached women with ease before. Charm. Timing. Opportunity.

Miss Claire, however, remained unreadable.

There were moments—brief shifts in tone, the faintest change in posture—where she seemed almost fond of him.

In her own way.

And then there were moments where she felt entirely untouchable.

He could not see a clear path to maneuver her toward seduction.

Worse—

He wasn’t certain he wanted to.

Even as just his lawyer, she had proven invaluable. Capable. Discreet. Calculating when necessary.

Ruining that dynamic for something impulsive would be careless.

So instead—

He adapted.

Adjusted his words.

Measured reactions.

Hoping for approval, however subtle.

They walked several more steps without speaking before reaching a wide turn in the corridor.

Grand double doors stood ahead, their glass panes revealing hints of greenery beyond.

Miss Claire pushed one open.

The hinges gave a soft murmur—creeeak~

Cool night air greeted them as they stepped outside.

The garden stretched before them in layered elegance.

Stone pathways curved through trimmed hedges shaped with care. Low lanterns cast a warm glow along the walkways.

Flowerbeds bloomed in careful arrangement—whites, deep reds, soft purples—fragrance drifting faintly through the air.

A small fountain stood near the center, water cascading gently into a circular basin.

Beyond that, a larger inner garden opened up, framed by arched trellises wrapped in climbing ivy.

They walked side by side along the stone path.

Miss Claire inhaled lightly.

"I have always adored these gardens," she said at last. "When I was still a child, I remember running off into them. Providing the nannies quite the headache."

Don let out a quiet chuckle.

"Well... you do seem like you were a troublesome child."

She stopped.

Near a cluster of pale roses, she placed one hand on her hip and turned toward him.

"Oh?"

Her head tilted slightly.

Her eyes narrowed just enough to suggest scrutiny.

The smallest hint of a smile appeared.

"What made you come to that conclusion?"

Don blinked once.

Internally—

’Fuck.’

He hadn’t expected her to actually ask.

He recovered quickly.

"I feel like this is a trick question."

One brow rose.

"Surely a superhuman like yourself is not worried about some tricks?"

"It’s not the trick itself I’m worried about," Don replied, offering a small smile. "They are coming from a top lawyer, after all."

Her expression shifted.

A small, genuine smile this time.

She resumed walking, the fabric of her dress moving subtly with each step.

"You really do have a silver tongue," she said. "Perhaps you yourself should have become a lawyer."

Don fell back into stride beside her.

"I’m not that brutal."

A quiet laugh escaped her.

"Brutal am I now?"

He glanced sideways at her.

"I’ve seen you negotiate."

"That is simply competence."

"Depends who you’re negotiating against."

They continued along the path.

At times, neither spoke.

Other moments, one of them would comment on something trivial—the symmetry of a hedge, the age of a tree, a renovation she had overseen years ago.

From these fragments, Don gathered small pieces of her history.

Her education abroad.

Her preference for classical literature.

Her distaste for public events that required extended small talk.

Nothing deeply personal.

But enough to humanize her.

At one point, she paused near the fountain, resting her fingers lightly against the stone rim.

"For all its structure," she said quietly, "I prefer places that allow room to wander."

Don studied her profile in the lantern light.

"Even lawyers need somewhere to get lost?"

"Especially lawyers," she replied.

Eventually, their circuit of the gardens brought them back toward the mansion.

The double doors opened again—creeak~

They stepped inside.

The corridor greeted them with the same subdued lighting.

When they returned to the dining hall—

The table remained set.

Plates partially cleared.

Dessert trays still present.

But Amanda and Samantha were nowhere in sight.

Claire’s gaze moved slowly across the room before settling on Don.

"Have they stepped out?" she asked calmly.

Don looked toward the empty chairs where Samantha and Amanda had been seated.

He tilted his head slightly.

"Seems like it."

And for a moment—

He wondered where Samantha had gone.

---

Meanwhile, outside the mansion grounds, the night air felt cooler.

Samantha and Amanda stood beside Samantha’s Range Rover, parked beneath a tall lamppost near the outer curve of the driveway.

Amanda leaned against the driver-side door, one ankle crossed over the other. A cigarette rested between her fingers, the ember glowing faintly before dimming again as she exhaled.

The smoke drifted upward and thinned into the night.

Samantha stood opposite her, back against the passenger door. Her fingers toyed with the jewel at her collarbone, thumb brushing over the pendant. She rotated it absentmindedly, the chain twisting slightly against her skin.

"I thought you said you quit cigarettes," Samantha muttered, eyes fixed on the ground.

"I have," Amanda replied, bringing it to her lips again. She took a deep drag, held it, then released it slowly. "Just wanted to see how these rich people cigarettes taste."

She examined the filter critically.

"Kinda disappointed, honestly."

Samantha managed a faint smile.

Amanda’s gaze shifted sideways toward her sister. She raised a brow.

"So..." she said lightly. "You gonna tell your sis who this mystery man is?"

Samantha stiffened.

"What makes you think there’s one?" she asked, though her voice lacked conviction.

Amanda let out a low laugh.

"Oh come on, Sam. I see how you’ve been smiling these days." She gestured vaguely at her sister. "And the change in dressing style. Jewels. Spending more time on your hair. Need I go on?"

Samantha turned away, pressing her lips together.

"It’s just that..."

Amanda tilted her head, studying her carefully.

"Is he younger?" she asked casually. "I mean, I don’t judge, Sam. As long as you’re happy."

She looked away after saying that, bringing the cigarette up again as if she had just delivered solid advice and was prepared to let it settle.

The ember flared as she inhaled—

And that was when Samantha spoke.

In a low, hesitant voice.

"The mystery man... is Don."

Amanda froze mid-pull.

Her eyes widened.

She inhaled at the wrong time.

Smoke caught in her throat.

"Wait—what—"

She bent forward suddenly, coughing hard. "Cough—cough— wait—cough—"

Her hand thumped against her chest while the cigarette nearly slipped from her fingers.

Samantha lowered her head, shoulders drawing inward.

Part of her still believed it was wrong.

Despite how right it felt when she was with him.

"I’m a terrible person, aren’t I?" she asked in a shaky voice.

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, clinging stubbornly before falling.

Before she could spiral further, a hand came around her shoulder.

Amanda had stepped forward, stubbing the cigarette against the pavement with the sole of her shoe—before flicking it aside.

She rubbed Samantha’s shoulder gently.

"You’re being serious, aren’t you?"

Samantha gave a weak nod.

"Yes."

Amanda leaned back slightly to look at her fully.

"Wow."

She blinked twice.

"Sorry," she added quickly. "I’m not judging you or anything. I’m just... wow."

Her hand dragged down her face briefly.

"I can’t believe it."

She narrowed her eyes a little, curiosity overtaking shock.

"How did it even happen? Did you or him—"

Samantha flushed deep red.

"Can we talk about this later?" she pleaded. "And please don’t tell anyone."

Amanda studied her for a few seconds.

The fear in Samantha’s expression wasn’t subtle.

"I get why you’re worried," Amanda said at last. "I do."

She squeezed her shoulder once.

"But when we get back home, we’re going to have a long talk. I need all the details."

Samantha’s blush deepened.

She didn’t refuse.

If anything—

Her posture eased slightly.

A weight she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying loosened just enough for her to breathe.

She wiped at her eyes quickly before more tears could fall.

"I was scared you’d hate me," she admitted quietly.

Amanda snorted.

"Hate you? Please." She nudged Samantha lightly with her elbow. "You think I’m that dramatic?"

Samantha let out a small, watery laugh.

The night air felt less suffocating now.

She glanced back toward the mansion, lights glowing warmly through the tall windows.

"I don’t know what I’m doing," she confessed. "But... when I’m with him, it feels right."

Amanda watched her carefully.

"Then we’ll figure it out," she said. "You’re not navigating this alone."

Samantha forced herself to smile.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

Fear still lingered.

Doubt still existed.

Yet for now—

She had support.

And that was enough.

---

**A/N:**

I genuinely struggled with how Samantha was supposed to handle revealing her relationship with Don. On one hand, I didn’t want it tossed out like, "Oh by the way, I’m dating him," and then we all move on like civilized adults. On the other hand, I really didn’t want to spiral into a five-Chapter emotional tribunal arc featuring tears, dramatic exits, and someone staring out a window questioning their life choices.

So instead, I did what any responsible writer does under pressure—I folded it into the ongoing plot and hoped it looks intentional.

Ideally, this gives her a bit more depth without derailing the pacing.

I originally planned to drop three Chapters today.

However.

It’s my birthday, and apparently my friends believe I should "go outside" and "celebrate" instead of writing fictional relationship complications. Shocking behavior.

So I’ve been forcibly extracted from my desk.

Here’s to another year of writing, questionable plot decisions, and characters making choices I then have to justify.

Thank you all for reading. Enjoy your weekend.