I, The Villainess, Will Seduce All The Heroines Instead
Chapter 118: Everything Is Cold (Part One: Raphael’s P.O.V.)

Chapter 118: Everything Is Cold (Part One: Raphael’s P.O.V.)

"From now on, you’ll be married to Verena."

He was only twelve when even the right to choose whom to love was stripped from him. However, he understood, it was his duty.

The girl, they said, was beautiful, with eyes like emerald fire.

But everything felt cold.

Everyone, everything, was so unbearably cold.

Their first meeting was nothing but a transaction.

Verena stood there, poised and distant, her sharp eyes cold and calculating. "You’re the one I’m supposed to marry?" Her voice held no warmth, just the edge of duty.

He nodded, feeling the weight of an expectation he never asked for.

She sneered, dismissing him with a glance. "I didn’t ask for this either."

The next time they crossed paths, she was still the same: orderly, strict, and unyielding.

"You’re late," she snapped, arms crossed as though waiting for an apology she would never offer.

He stared at her, caught between frustration and resignation. "I’m not your servant, Verena."

"Then act like it," she shot back, turning on her heel with the same cold grace.

Their encounters always followed the same rhythm: her words cutting deeper than any sword, her presence a constant reminder of the chains that bound them both.

Slowly, in his quiet desperation for warmth, he became what the world refused to give him—fiery, untamed, and burning with a passion too loud for fate’s monotone script.

In a realm ruled by cold order, he wanted nothing more than to break everything.

That was when he found Evelyn—naive, untouched, and trembling beneath a tree, lost somewhere in the woods like a forgotten child of spring.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently, extending a hand.

She looked up, wide-eyed and glistening with tears. "I..."

And the moment their hands met, something soft bloomed—a warmth he hadn’t known he’d been aching for.

He hadn’t meant to fall in love.

It was supposed to be just a moment. A flicker.

A kindness extended to a lost girl in the woods, trembling beneath the shade of an old sycamore tree.

It was the first time someone had ever held his hand as if he were a lifeline, not a weapon.

She said nothing at first.

Just clutched his sleeve like it was enough to tether her to safety. Her lips trembled with words she didn’t know how to say, and he let her stay silent.

For once, silence didn’t feel like judgment. It felt like breath.

But fate has never been kind to softness.

Verena had always been there, brash, upright, perfectly honed like a blade meant for ceremony and bloodshed.

She wasn’t cruel, exactly. She was orderly. Stern. The type of girl who ironed her convictions every morning and folded her emotions into crisp military corners.

Their marriage had been decided when he was twelve.

She wore that engagement like a medal; he wore it like a shackle.

He could never speak freely around Verena. There were rules. Structures. Commandments hidden in every gaze.

She wasn’t unkind, but she never gave warmth either, only expectations.

He had to grow into a man worthy of the Huliet legacy, after all.

And yet.

Evelyn ruined that with her trembling.

He hated her for it.

And loved her for it.

She shouldn’t have looked at him like that, like he was someone who could be soft.

She shouldn’t have let her hair fall in messy waves, or whispered "thank you" with a voice so fragile it cracked at the edges.

She shouldn’t have smiled like the world hadn’t been cruel to her yet.

Because now, he was starting to dream.

And he hated it.

He knew that the moment softness took root in his chest, everything he was built to be would shatter.

So he turned cruel instead.

He stopped avoiding her, but not out of kindness.

His gaze lingered too long. His hands stayed too close.

He spoke low and sharp, a warning dressed in flirtation.

When she flinched, he smirked. When she smiled nervously, he stepped closer.

He trained like a madman not to escape her memory, but to punish it.

To punish himself for wanting her. He bruised his knuckles raw, cracked his bones against stone, as if pain could cauterize the craving.

But every time he touched his blade, it wasn’t blood he thought of—it was skin.

Her skin.

Trembling. Fragile.

And the worse part? He liked how fragile she was.

That was the danger.

He didn’t want to protect her.

He wanted to own her.

But that was when he noticed the glances. His brother.

Raphael.

He was smiling more now, lingering near Evelyn with that reckless charm of his, the kind of boy who had never been told to swallow his heart.

Then he saw his brother, Norvan, falling for the same girl he had laid his hands on.

Was it because Raphael wasn’t afraid to be soft?

He should’ve been angry.

He should’ve hated his brother for making her laugh that way.

But mostly, he hated himself—for not being able to.

Because war was coming.

He was to be deployed within the week.

The Huliet heir, commander of the Eastern Vanguard.

The symbol of his house’s might. He would leave behind the girl he was bound to, the girl he longed for, and the brother who might just love her right.

And he couldn’t bring himself to say a word.

Because saying it, admitting it, would make it real.

And if it was real, then he’d never survive the battlefield. Men who held hope in their hearts fought worse.

Men with softness died first.

So he trained.

He sharpened his blades.

He rehearsed the coldness in his voice. Practiced not looking at Evelyn when she passed by. Pretended her presence didn’t twist something deep in his chest.

The day before his departure, he saw her in the garden again.

Evelyn.

She was kneeling by the roses, her fingers delicately brushing the petals, lips pursed in quiet thought. He told himself to keep walking. That she was a dream too sweet to taste.

But his feet betrayed him.

"Are you well?" he asked, voice low.

She turned, blinking up at him with that same wide-eyed gaze. "Yes... just a bit overwhelmed."

He nodded. That was all. No warmth. No offer to sit beside her.

"I heard you’re leaving soon."

"Tomorrow."

"Oh."

The silence lingered between them like mist.

"I..." Evelyn’s voice trembled. "I hope you return safe."

He should’ve said thank you. He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he asked: "Will you miss me?"

Evelyn’s lips parted in surprise. "Why would you ask something like that?"

He didn’t know. The words had simply slipped through the cracks in his armor.

She stood then, brushing off her skirts. Her gaze met his, searching. She stepped closer.

"Even if I did," she said softly, "you’re not the kind of man who wants to be missed, are you?"

He stared at her.

And gods, he almost broke.

But then he remembered his father’s voice.

Don’t be weak.

So he turned away.

By nightfall, he was gone.

No farewell. No goodbye letter. No whispered promises beneath the stars.

Just silence. Just distance.

And war.

Because love, especially for someone like him, was not a right, but a risk.

And softness was something he had buried long ago in the woods, under the trembling weight of a girl who had smiled too kindly for this world.

Evelyn stood alone in the garden long after he left.

The breeze tugged at her sleeves, the roses unmoving.

Something in her chest ached, subtle, unnamed, like a bruise she hadn’t noticed until now.

She should have said more. Should have asked him to stay, even if he couldn’t. But the words had felt too heavy in her mouth, and he had already closed himself off like a gate bolted shut.

He didn’t want to be missed.

And yet, she already did.

He fought relentlessly, fulfilling his role as the heir of the Huliet family.

He carved through heads, hearts, and the fragile dreams of men just to make his way back home.

And in the end, he won.

It was a relief. And yet, it was infuriating. Because blood like that never truly washes off.

He had become a creature of war. The battlefield was his only home now.

When he returned, the capital bloomed with celebration.

Banners waved, horns sang, and people cheered for the victorious heir of the Huliet family.

But all he could see were ghosts—fallen comrades, shattered dreams, the hollow faces of those he couldn’t save.

That, he thought bitterly, was his future.

"Raphael!"

That voice, gentle, unsure, too soft for a world like his, called out to him.

Evelyn.

Just seeing her melted something inside him. He hadn’t looked anyone in the eye since returning, not even his father who had roared with pride. But Evelyn? She made him feel alive again.

Then came the sting of chaos.

"YOU DIRTY WHORE!"

Verena’s hand cracked through the air and across Evelyn’s cheek.

He moved to stop it—but too late.

The girl he loved stood stunned, hurt, while Verena stormed off, only to return moments later, with a new light on her eyes.

Raphael stepped forward, voice firm and unshaken.

"I HEREBY BREAK OFF OUR ENGAGEMENT!"

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