“His Grace never listens to me… it makes treating him extremely difficult.”

“Is that so?”

At the unexpected mention of a familiar name, Maude blinked in surprise—but soon offered a soft, polite smile. Dr. Lewis’s face, however, remained dark with concern. His brows furrowed deeply, and a sigh escaped him like a heavy weight pressing on his chest.

“He insists he’s fine every time, but I’m worried the stitches may have come undone again. He’s been overexerting himself lately.”

Her eyes trembled slightly. Stitches? Did that mean… he had been injured badly enough to require surgery? She could hardly believe it. The Grand Duke—the Emperor’s direct heir—was being sent to the frontlines where bullets rained?

“How large is the wound?” she asked carefully.

Lewis let out another dry sigh.

“It’s not a major gunshot wound—just a graze—but it reopened over an older scar. It’s rather deep. His body is always carrying injuries, some of which I doubt he even remembers getting.”

“I see…”

Maude couldn’t find words. She had known the Berren Empire to be strict about military duty, but this was beyond her imagination.

“Well, he insists on being at the front lines. I suppose there’s no helping it…”

In a royal family where heirs were few and precious, sending the second in line for succession to the battlefield was unthinkable. Lewis’s voice faltered, shadowed with quiet bitterness. Strict hardly seemed sufficient to describe the imperial family’s cruelty.

“Human life is the same for everyone,” the doctor murmured as he began putting away his instruments. “We each only live once.”

“Indeed,” Maude replied softly.

As her gaze met the solemn lines of his face, she realized—Lewis’s words carried more than professional concern. The Empress, she understood suddenly, must never have once wished for her son’s return from war since the day he first put on that uniform.

“I beg you to convince him to come in for treatment,” Lewis said firmly, bowing low enough to startle her. Maude hastily tried to straighten him up.

“He won’t listen to me, but he’ll listen to you, Lady Maude.”

“Haha…” she let out a weak laugh, the words she wanted to say—we’re not close like that—catching on the tip of her tongue. Even as she left, Lewis’s desperate voice echoed behind her: Please, I’m counting on you.

‘Honestly… what am I supposed to do with this?’

Maude exhaled a quiet sigh. She had come to one simple conclusion about Kyle Rizewell: he was a man adrift—forever at the edge of the horizon, enduring everything alone. A recklessly brave, almost foolish man.

That night, under the deepening green shadows of summer, her thoughts lingered on him longer than she intended.

***

The next morning, Maude’s coffeehouse was lively with chatter. A group of debutantes, fresh from their morning stroll at Ridden Park, had gathered for tea. The young ladies of the capital’s most prestigious families were deep in animated conversation, likely gossiping about last night’s ball and the young gentlemen who had caught their eyes.

Soon enough, their mothers would be arriving too—to discreetly arrange introductions between their daughters and eligible bachelors. Business was good; Maude smiled to herself.

Then she caught a fragment of conversation from a nearby table.

“Do you think Lord Jersey will come again today?”

“Probably…”

The girls groaned dramatically, making Maude’s curiosity rise. She peeked toward the entrance, just as another voice chimed in dreamily:

“I thought I’d have a romance like The Circumstances of Wanting Marriage.”

“Oh, I saw last night’s chapter! I even danced like that scene at the ball, but… I felt nothing.”

“At least we saw Lord Azel this morning. Isn’t he just divine?”

“Oh, absolutely. The more I see him, the handsomer he gets!”

Their laughter filled the air like watercolor sunlight. Maude couldn’t help smiling too. Truly, a beautiful man could lift any mood simply by existing.

Still smiling, she stepped outside. The lazy heat carried the scent of acacia blossoms, their fragrance swirling around her skirts.

And there—beneath the cascading sunlight—stood a man in a crisp white uniform.

Kyle Rizewell.

He approached slowly, his expression unreadable, his lips curved in the faintest of smiles.

“It’s been a while,” he greeted smoothly.

“It has,” Maude replied. “Have you been well?”

“Thanks to you.”

‘Was that sarcasm?’

She looked him over carefully. The corners of his lips twitched, but his tone remained calm. It was hard to tell. Still, she couldn’t deny it—she had been the one to turn his quiet life upside down.

Then, without warning, he said—

“How about a bet?”

Her heart skipped.

The empire’s most sought-after bachelor—the Grand Duke himself—was standing before her, eyes alight with challenge.

“Lend me Lady Maude,” he said. “For one year.”

He handed her a massive bouquet of myrtle blossoms, enough to fill her arms. The petals shimmered under the sunlight, scattering light and fragrance around them.

“And in return?” she asked with a cool smile.

“Anything,” he said simply.

No hesitation. No hint of jest.

Maude tilted her head, her lips curving faintly. There was a quiet confidence about him—a man fully aware of his own charm, unhurried, and unshaken. 

‘How irritating,’ she thought, feeling heat creep up her neck.

He held her gaze without flinching.

“You could even give me to yourself,” he added, his voice calm, almost gentle.

She let out a short, breathy laugh. 

‘So he really does know how to handle women.’ Too smooth, too natural to be inexperienced.

And then—

“Lady Maude, you’ll have to take responsibility for me,” Kyle said, his tone shamelessly bold.

‘Responsibility? For what exactly?’

Before she could reply, a delighted shriek broke out nearby.

“Isn’t that His Grace, the Grand Duke of Rizewell?!”

The debutantes had spotted him. Within seconds, the café’s entrance was crowded with excited young women whispering and giggling.

“He’s so handsome!”

“Did you see that bouquet?”

“Lady Maude is so lucky!”

Their voices buzzed like a flock of sparrows.

“Let’s continue this conversation inside,” Maude said quickly, forcing a smile.

Kyle gave a small nod and followed her toward the café. The debutantes scrambled out of the way, cheeks flushed pink, stealing glances at him as he passed. Maude sighed inwardly—

‘At least this will keep them buying tea for another hour.’

At the end of the hallway, she stopped before a door leading to a private office—a quiet space she used for meetings.

“Just a moment.”

The bouquet was nearly as tall as she was; she struggled to find the doorknob. Without a word, Kyle took it from her hands with practiced ease.

“I’ll hold that.”

She smiled gratefully. 

“Thank you.”

Even with her height, she was slender, almost delicate—and the flowers looked far too heavy in her arms. As he looked down at her hand on the doorknob, a memory flickered through his mind: their waltz at the ball.

He had noticed then how small her hands were, so fragile he had feared holding too tightly. He’d been painfully aware of every step.

Sunlight poured through the wide window, filling the room in soft white and blue. It was a bright, airy space—like the woman herself.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked, gesturing toward the sofa.

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

She rang the bell for Sarah, her ever-dutiful maid. When Sarah entered, her eyes widened at the sight of the Grand Duke.

“Your Grace… what brings you here?” she whispered to Maude.

Maude leaned close, lowering her voice. 

“He wants to borrow me. For a year.”

“What?!”

Sarah’s shocked cry made Maude quickly press a hand to her mouth.

“Shh! Just bring two coffees,” she whispered.

Sarah’s eyes filled with dismay, but she obeyed, leaving the two alone.

Maude turned back to Kyle, studying his calm, unreadable face as she sat down.

He met her gaze evenly. 

“I prefer being called ‘Maude’ rather than ‘My Lady.’”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said with a light smile.

He nodded, setting the bouquet carefully beside him.

“I need time,” he said quietly. “Time before I can return to the sea.”

A man who never truly healed—always drifting, always pulled back to the frontlines.

“Until then, I want to avoid any political marriages.”

He was still chasing the horizon, still choosing the storm.

“And you want me,” Maude said slowly, “to buy you that time? Like Bergen’s lover once did?”