Countess Viole Attley looked down at her daughter, seated in the bridal waiting room, with quiet concern in her eyes.

It was a fact nearly forgotten now, but Viole had remarried.

When her first marriage—childless—ended with her husband’s death, she had entered a second marriage as the wife of a widowed nobleman with two children, still carrying the weight of her grief.

Even setting aside the natural bias only a true parent could have, her stepdaughter was a beautiful bride.

Her black hair, elegantly swept up and adorned with pearls, accentuated the graceful line of her neck. Her slender back, wrapped in white silk, appeared delicate and endearing.

And her narrow waist—Viole knew well the kind of desire such a figure could stir in a man.

Her complexion was slightly pale, giving her a somewhat fragile appearance, but that had always been the girl’s natural coloring, nothing to worry over.

In fact, with her bridal makeup, it lent her an air of refined elegance—like an expensive porcelain doll. If anything, it was an advantage today.

Even her still, almost lifeless expression blended seamlessly with her finely sculpted features.

Today, in every sense, Isabelle was a flawless bride.

After examining her with the objectivity befitting a stepmother, Viole finally parted her lips to speak.

“Are you truly all right with getting married like this?”

“Yes.”

Isabelle, Viole’s stepdaughter, answered calmly.

And yet, Viole still could not shake the feeling that she was missing something.

A month earlier, not long after celebrating her nineteenth birthday, her daughter had suddenly informed her parents one day,

“I’m getting married. To Chester.”

Chester was the son of Count Line, lord of the neighboring territory beside the County of Attley, and Isabelle’s childhood friend.

Hexter, Count Attley—Viole’s husband and Isabelle’s father—asked,

“Chester is a fine young man. But isn’t this all rather sudden?”

“I’m nineteen now. I’m old enough to marry. Chester and I have already spoken about it, and we decided we would hold the wedding as soon as we had your permission.”

Hexter was taken aback that everything had been decided without even involving him. Before he could recover, Isabelle turned to Viole.

“As for the wedding dress… if it’s all right with you, Mother, I would like to wear the one you wore.”

But Viole’s wedding dress had not been particularly lavish, as hers had been a second marriage.

If it had been the dress worn by Isabelle’s birth mother, the former Countess, that would have been another matter.

But that gown no longer remained.

In accordance with the former Countess’s wishes, it had been buried with her when her funeral was held.

It was considered an elegant way for noblewomen who died young from illness or other misfortune to show that they permitted their husbands to remarry.

Still unable to fully accept the sudden announcement of marriage, Viole asked,

“I wouldn’t mind, but wouldn’t you rather have a new dress made?”

Viole was not a narrow-minded woman. If Isabelle was to be married, she had every intention of preparing the finest wedding possible—within the limits of the family’s means.

But Isabelle refused, for a reason Viole had never expected.

“It would take at least two months to make a dress.”

That was true—but there was no reason they couldn’t simply wait.

And yet, Isabelle’s resolve did not waver.

“I want to be married before this spring. Once spring comes, the estate will be too busy with everything that needs to be done.”

It was true that, when the ground thawed, there would be planting and countless other matters to attend to.

Even if they were nobles who never set foot in the fields themselves, the work within the estate alone would be overwhelming.

While Viole fell silent, Isabelle pressed on, leaving no room for objection.

“Chester agrees. For the same reason, he wants to hold the wedding as soon as possible.”

…And so, the wedding had been arranged.

Yet even now, Viole remained uneasy.

“To have the ceremony like this… anyone would think you were in a hurry to get married.”

‘In a hurry to get married.’

Isabelle swallowed the urge to confess, right then and there, that it was the truth.

To Viole, it may have been nothing more than a passing remark. But Isabelle truly needed a husband.

If she did not become a married woman immediately, she would fall within the notice of Tenetta Achilleton—far away in the capital.

At this time, the young Grand Duke of Achilleton was in urgent need of a bride. So much so that his vassals had gathered portraits of every unmarried noblewoman they could find and piled them onto his desk.

Before she was caught in that web of information, Isabelle had to become someone’s wife.

Otherwise…

“I’ll marry you no matter what it takes.”

…Because something like that could happen.

“Why do you like me so much?”

“It was love at first sight.”

In her previous life, whenever her husband whispered those words by her bedside, Isabelle had found it almost endearing.

A man so large, who could pin her down against the bed again and again, acting sweet—it had seemed oddly charming.

Back then, she had never imagined she would end up running from him—only to fall down the cathedral stairs and die with her neck broken.

Now, Isabelle no longer wished to know what a powerful man might be capable of simply because of something like “love at first sight.”

Especially when that same man—who claimed to have fallen for her at first sight—had chased after his own wife like a madman, intent on snapping her neck.

Right now, Isabelle’s only priority was to stay out of Tenetta’s sight. What others might think of her could come later.

Unaware of her circumstances, Viole let out a small sigh.

“Marriage is something that usually happens only once in a lifetime.”

“……”

“Unless one loses their spouse… until then, you must devote your life to the person you vow yourself to at the altar.”

Both Viole and Hexter had remarried after losing their previous spouses.

Isabelle realized that the stepmother who usually held back, careful not to overstep, was offering advice today out of genuine concern.

Stories often spoke of cruel stepmothers, but the relationship between Viole and Isabelle was not a bad one.

If Isabelle had not held such faint memories of her birth mother, she might have come to love Viole as one of her own.

Forcing a brighter tone, Isabelle spoke.

“I know.”

At that moment, the maid who had accompanied Isabelle from the estate approached her.

“My lady, it’s time to prepare for your entrance.”

Viole rose first, intending to wait in the ceremony hall.

Watching her stepmother’s retreating figure, Isabelle silently prayed that if the wedding proceeded without incident, she would give part of what she had to those in need.

Even if it was foolish to think that helping others might ward off misfortune yet to come, she didn’t care.

Just before Viole stepped out of the waiting room, Isabelle spoke.

“Thank you… for letting me wear your dress.”

Viole paused.

It was never easy to grow close to a child who was already grown. No matter how carefully she had provided for her—food, clothing, everything throughout the seasons—Isabelle had always remained just a little distant.

And yet, in that brief moment, Viole felt a faint, bittersweet emptiness—the kind only someone who has raised a child could understand.

After a short silence, she replied,

“It’s only natural for a mother to pass something like this down to her daughter.”

***

Inside the ceremony hall, prepared within the cathedral of the Attley estate, her childhood friend—Chester—stood waiting.

Holding her father’s hand, Isabelle walked toward him.

For a fleeting moment, she saw another figure overlapping his back—a man far taller, broader—her first husband.

She blinked once, then again, forcing the image away.

On the day she had accepted his proposal after their brief courtship, Tenetta had looked truly happy.

“I don’t think you can even imagine… how grateful I am for this moment, Isabelle.”

You were that grateful—and yet you threw it all away just because I might have been left with a disability?

How shallow could that gratitude be?

A flicker of anger, laced with resentment, surfaced briefly along Isabel’s clenched jaw. Fortunately, no one in the hall seemed to notice.

Isabelle and Chester stood side by side.

Chester turned his head slightly toward her and whispered, just loud enough for her alone to hear,

“Are you nervous?”

“No.”

A hint of surprise crossed his profile.

But more than anyone, Chester knew that this marriage was devoid of emotion. When Isabelle sought him out after returning to the past and understanding her situation, she showed no excitement whatsoever.

“Let’s get married.”

Chester had nodded without the slightest hesitation, his face faintly flushed by the firelight.

“Okay.”

Should she have answered like that just now, the way he had then?

The thought came too late.

Isabelle had never been good at pretense. She preferred to speak plainly and would often abandon deep thoughts midway through, either because she was overwhelmed or simply weary of them.

Her three years of marriage had not taught her cunning or calculation. Instead, they had given her a kind of careless freedom.

This was because she had always had a husband who would quietly cover her mistakes and skilfuly deflect any hostility directed at her.

Tenetta had wanted her to be honest with him at all times. Even if the feelings she harbored were far from those a proper lady should possess.

“If you’re angry, you can curse at me. You can even hit me.”

Despite those words, Isabelle had never sworn at or hit her husband.

She always seemed to know exactly where his limits were.

Older than her by several years, he took quiet pleasure in teasing his young wife.

Sometimes it made her sulk, but he never crossed the line and earned her hatred.

At least, not until that final day.

Now, Isabelle despised the man who had betrayed her in her previous life.

That was why, in this second chance, she wanted nothing more than to avoid him.

She believed she already knew who he really was.

The officiating priest recited the familiar blessings — words intended to promote peace and devotion in marriage — before addressing Chester.

“Do you, the groom, vow to love and honor the bride while you remain within the embrace of peace?”

Chester did not hesitate.

“I vow.”

Without meaning to, Isabelle found herself comparing him to the man she had married in her previous life.

‘Tenetta had trembled a little more than this…’

For a man who had always seemed as immovable as a mountain, the depth of his emotion that day had left a strong impression.

The priest’s gaze shifted to Isabelle.

“And do you, the bride, vow to love and honor the groom while you remain within the embrace of peace?”

In that moment, Isabelle felt a sudden urge to look again at the man she was about to marry.
She glanced at Chester from the corner of her eye.

He was not a bad man.

But love…

Love might be impossible.

To Isabelle, love was something like a sudden lightning strike, a force that changed you completely, from head to toe.

‘Could I ever feel that again?’

It was the kind of question only someone who had once been deeply in love—and then dragged back out of it, broken—could ask.

But in the next breath, Isabelle realized—

It no longer mattered.

It wasn’t as though she was marrying for love in the first place.

Isabelle parted her lips.

“I vow—”

Before she could finish, a sharp axe blade tore through the cathedral doors.