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“Will you be my doctor?”

The sun of Divoa, the brilliant sword of the North.

The perfect man praised by all smiled as affectionately as the rumors said. Irene looked at him and thought he was like a potato peeled by a skilled housekeeper. Smooth without any curves.

But unfortunately, she was not interested in people without flaws.

Irene’s eyes were only drawn to those who were broken and wounded.

Like herself.

“I’m okay alone.”

“I’m okay.”

But he kept being kind to her.

A man who was supposed to make others wait was waiting for her, and a man who was supposed to turn away first was getting used to seeing her back.

He set out to find her who had lost her way, and reached out his hand in front of the carriage.

At that moment, Irene realized. He was not a smooth potato, but a potato with a rotten inside.