—Ah.

Hearing that, Arman paused awkwardly for a moment, his gaze shifting left, avoiding Kale’s eyes.

An apology…? Is that even a thing?

All he remembered was being utterly stuck—worrying endlessly how to calm Evelia down—only to get ambushed by her scissor kick out of nowhere…

Since Evelia always just replied with “Ah,” “Mm,” or “Okay,” even if she later did something soothing like helping him sleep, Arman had no clue whether she was still angry. He couldn’t read her at all. If he said, “Evelia, you’re not allowed to be mad at me anymore,” she’d nod—but what she truly felt? He had no idea.

“Ahem—an apology? What do *I* need to apologize for? I clearly won, okay.”

Still stubborn.

He’d been so stressed back then he could barely eat.

“Is that so?” Kale fixed him with a knowing look. “But you looked genuinely upset.”

“—H-Have I? No way! I’m famously composed!”

“Ahh, I see.”

Kale walked from the desk to the sofa, picked up Arman’s coat, draped it over himself, pulled it fully over his head, and lay perfectly still with a serene expression.

“Damn.”

Arman instantly got it.

“—I just don’t get it.”

Kale then mimicked Arman’s earlier pose, bolting upright from the sofa with the coat still hanging over his head.

“I don’t understand why she’s mad at me.”

Spot-on. Like he’d won first place in the “Arman Impersonation Contest.”

“You bastard!”

Arman lunged and snatched his coat back. Sure enough, beneath it was Kale’s face—a smirk tinged with mockery.

“So… you really didn’t apologize?”

The act over, Kale settled back onto the sofa. Unlike Arman, he noticed the kettle had gone cold and called a guard to bring fresh warm water.

“I don’t need to apologize. I did nothing wrong.”

So stubborn.

“There you go again,” Kale chided. “Didn’t the Crown Prince say it? With women, right or wrong doesn’t matter. They just want the apology.”

“That’s so unreasonable.”

Kale just smiled, shrugged, accepted the warm kettle, and poured himself a cup.

“…But,” Arman hesitated, tapping the table behind him with his foot, “she actually seemed like *she* wanted to apologize to *me*.”

“Hm?”

Hearing this, Kale—the seasoned married man—immediately perked up.

“She even asked if I was still angry… This shouldn’t be my fault, right? *She’s* the one apologizing.”

“That’s a woman’s trap,” Kale’s gaze sharpened. “Arman, don’t fall for it.”

“Huh? Really that dramatic?” He still seemed clueless.

“Women say one thing, do another.”

“Aren’t you scared your wife will hear you?”

“Nope. I do the same.”

“You…”

“Enough joking,” Kale turned dead serious. “Even if it sounds mild here—you can’t relax. Some women act all ‘I’m sorry, forgive me,’ then switch the moment they meet friends. They might badmouth you in women’s circles.”

His expression was graver than during royal council meetings.

“This… can’t be true. How do you know so much?”

“Because I have a wife.”

“You’re insane.”

“My wife’s a businesswoman—emotionally easygoing, so I breathe easy. But to tap the female market, she attends high-society tea parties. Heard plenty of ‘gentle’ ladies trash-talking men behind their backs or holding grudges. Women’s gossip spreads as fast as the Second Prince’s PR team.”

“The Second Prince really *is* that useless,” Arman muttered, slipping in his usual jab.

“So your wife’s basically a gossip scout?”

“It’s called firsthand intel. Essential for merchants.”

“Alright… But seriously, is it *that* bad?”

Though stubborn moments ago, Arman now looked genuinely uneasy. He didn’t want Evelia holding a grudge. He’d thought time would heal it—never knew women kept score.

“Women don’t just hold grudges,” Kale said. “They have another trait.”

“What?”

“Digging up the past.”

At those words, Arman went pale.

“Listen: no matter when it happened, the moment she argues, it’s fair game. Wet the bed at age five before you even met? She’ll bring it up and quote, ‘Show me the child at seven…’ Let this slide? Next fight starts with ‘Remember last time?’ or ‘You did this before!’”

Just hearing it sent a chill down Arman’s spine.

“Then… what do I do?”

“What *can* you do? You waited too long. This is now prime material for future arguments.”

Arman sucked in a sharp breath. He couldn’t picture Evelia chattering endlessly—but if she *did*? Terrifying. She was stubborn. If she fixated on digging up the past… she might start from his birth.

“So, Arman—do everything to make amends.”

“M-Make amends?”

“Exactly. Think: what does *she* like? Anything she’s fond of?”

“Ah…”

Arman frowned. He’d asked Evelia once. She said she liked nothing…

But now—recalling the ever-present red dishes on his table—Evelia… seemed fixated on something?

Like… ketchup?

But—seriously, who apologizes with *ketchup*?