Chapter 203: What’s your name?

Eren entered the room as planned—sacrificing a huge gold-filled pouch, of course. The door clicked shut behind him.

Suite 3 dripped with silk, gilded trim, and the heavy, intoxicating aroma of burned patchouli and jasmine. At the far side of the chamber, a young woman sat before an ornate vanity mirror. She couldn’t have been older than her mid-twenties, her dark hair swept up in artful curls as she carefully dabbed lipstick across her full lower lip.

Catching sight of Eren’s reflection in the glass, her posture shifted in an instant.

She turned on her cushioned stool, her lips curving into a radiant, breathtaking smile that was practically professional. It was an exquisite, dazzling performance—and entirely hollow beneath the surface. Eren recognized that exact brand of manufactured hospitality instantly: the practiced, polite armor of someone who traded their dignity for survival on a daily basis.

Her outfit was revealing with a gossamer fabric that clung to generous curves, revealing just enough skin to make ordinary men empty their family vaults without a second thought. For an average capital lecher, she was a goddess worth every ounce of gold.

Unfortunately for her, Eren’s regular company included six gorgeous ladies. His standards hadn’t just been raised; they were orbiting a different celestial sphere.

"Hi," Eren offered with an innocent, breezy little wave.

Before the courtesan could even rise to curtsy, he casually strolled right past her, ignoring the bed entirely. He pushed open the doors leading onto the private balcony, stepping out into the evening air.

Eren glanced straight down into the narrow streets below, finding a tarp-covered extraction cart..

He then shifted his blue gaze to the left, looking at the railing from the adjoining balcony of Suite 4. The drop was clean, the angle was blind to the main thoroughfare, and the stone ledge was wide enough to haul a fat noble over without getting noticed.

’Seems everything secured,’ Eren noted with satisfaction.

Behind him, the courtesan stood frozen by her vanity, her jaw slightly slack, her carefully rehearsed seduction routine completely derailed by the strange, nonchalant youth inspecting her masonry.

Eren stepped back inside, sliding the glass doors shut behind him with a faint click.

"Ah, my apologies," Eren said, flashing her an apologetic, easygoing grin as he unbuttoned the top clasp of his midnight-blue coat. "Just had to inspect the evening skyline. Fresh air clears the sinuses."

He strolled over to the lounge sofa, tossing himself onto the cushions and stretching his long legs out with the unbothered ease of a lord relaxing in his private library.

The courtesan blinked, utterly baffled. In her years of servicing the capital’s elite, every wealthy young noble who kicked the door open was either pawing at her bodice within five seconds or barking crude orders to assert their fragile masculinity. Yet this absurdly handsome lord was lounging like he was waiting for a scheduled dental appointment.

Eren patted the mattress opposite him, his blue eyes softening with gentle, unvarnished warmth.

"Why are you still standing there like a statue?" Eren asked casually, gesturing toward the plush bed. "Take a seat. Relax. Put your feet up and take a breather."

The woman hesitated, her grey eyes darting warily between his relaxed posture and the locked door. Slowly m she approached the bed, perched lightly on the edge, her hands folded neatly over her bare lap.

"My lord doesn’t... wish to begin?" she asked, her voice soft, testing the waters, still bracing for the inevitable cruel whim or arrogant demand typical of spoiled aristocrats.

Eren chuckled, resting his head back against the plush velvet cushion and crossing his arms comfortably over his chest.

"Not in the slightest," Eren said smoothly, offering her an easy, disarming smile. "Consider this your easiest payday of the month. Nothing is going to happen to you tonight. You get to rest your feet, drink some fine spirits on my tab, and take an hour off from tolerating degenerate nobles."

Clara shifted on the edge of the mattress, her fingers nervously tugging at her gown. Her dark eyes darted toward him, snapped away the moment their gazes met, and then flicked back three seconds later with growing, narrow suspicion.

Eren was idly tapping against his kneecap. There were still over twenty minutes until Baron Kiliyan’s arrival.

Catching her tenth consecutive side-eye, Eren finally asked:

"Something on my face, or are you trying to memorize my face for a sketch artist?"

Clara hesitated, her tongue darting out to wet her painted lips. She took a tiny, cautious breath, leaning forward just a fraction.

"My lord... please do not take offense at my insolence," she murmured in a hushed, tentative tone, "but did you pay double the tariff simply to put on a public performance downstairs? To show the other young lords you’re capable of being a man... while secretly suffering from an unmentionable... impo—"

"I am going to stop you right there before you slander my vitality," Eren cut her off, giving her a look of deadpan offense. "I am extraordinarily capable in the lower deck, thank you very much. That is definitely not the problem."

Clara blinked, looking more bewildered than before. "Then... why are you sitting there like a marble monument?"

Eren let out a soft sigh, reclining deeper into the plush cushions with his arms draped casually over the velvet backrest. "I have a specific piece of business to settle in this establishment. Once the clock strikes the right hour, I finish the job and walk out."

Clara stared at him. She nodded faintly—understanding the literal words, yet entirely unable to comprehend why a wealthy, terrifyingly handsome young man would pay huge sums just to sit in silence.

Minutes crawled.

The silence became deafening, the boredom was actively chipping away at Eren’s sanity. There were only so many times a man could study the floral patterns of an imported carpet without contemplating jumping out the balcony just for entertainment.

Eren tilted his head, his blue eyes settling on the girl perched tensely on the bed.

"What’s your name?" he asked quietly.

"Giselle," she answered automatically.

"I meant your actual name. The one they didn’t paint on the door plaque."

She stiffened slightly. Her eyes searched his face, finding no cruelty, no patronizing mockery.

"...Clara," she whispered, the sound fragile, as if speaking it aloud might break a taboo.

"Clara," Eren repeated, testing the weight of the name. It sounded humble, earthy. "How long have you been here?"

Clara looked down at her hands, the manicured polish on her nails suddenly seeming dull under the amber lamplight.

"Since I was nine," she said, her voice flat. "A bad harvest. Five younger brothers, an empty grain silo, and tax collectors at the farmhouse gate. My father traded me to a merchant convoy for three sacks of flour and twenty silver pieces. The merchant sold me to the previous madam here to train as an attendant."