Chapter 8.1

“Your Highness, may I enter?”  

Michael, who had been sitting blankly, turned his head toward the door. Instead of answering, he slowly stood up. When he opened the door, the attendant bowed respectfully.  

“What is it?”  

“Ah, we’ll soon be arriving at the harbor. It’s already quite late—should we secure accommodations nearby, or would you prefer to head straight to the Imperial Palace?”  

“There’s a backlog of tasks waiting, so we’ll go straight there. Delaying further isn’t an option.”  

“Understood, Your Highness.”  

After answering, Michael reached for the doorknob.  

“But, Your Highness…”  

Michael raised an eyebrow as if to ask what was wrong. The attendant spoke in a concerned tone.  

“Are you all right? You look unwell…”  

“…”  

Michael, who stood motionless for a moment, answered with a faint, forced smile. The moment the door clicked shut, the painted-on smile vanished completely. The face that was always bright and vibrant, like midsummer, now carried the chill of a cold northern wind.  

He sat down on the sofa with his back to the light. Leaning back, he crossed his long legs and tilted his head.  

Am I all right? Of course, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?  

Michael fidgeted with a piece of cloth lying beside him, folding and unfolding it repeatedly. He picked up the undergarment, now rolled tightly around his fingers, and held it up to his face.  

“…”  

The piece of cloth, once so damp that it left moisture on his fingers, had dried stiff. It was dry to the point of crumbling—just like Michael’s current state of mind.  

‘What went wrong?’  

Michael recalled when this small piece of cloth had still served its purpose. He remembered seeing Andrea’s ghost-like face at the harbor, walking side by side with her into this room.  

Up to that point, everything had been fine. Though she seemed flustered by their unexpected meeting, her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes held clear emotions of excitement and anticipation.  

‘It must’ve gone wrong after the conversation about Frederick Byron.’  

When Michael first heard about Earl Byron from Iris Fiarenti, his initial emotion was fear. He worried that Andrea might follow the same tragic path as Mia Isent, Byron’s former wife.  

The thought of her gradually losing her light and fading away entirely sent chills down his spine. That was why he had canceled his packed schedule and impulsively boarded the ship.  —

“There’s a chance my father might accept my plea and annul this engagement. After all, I am the sole heiress of Heathridge. No matter my past, there are still a few suitors who would covet me.”  

“……”  

“But, Your Highness, can you be certain that the man I’m newly paired with would be any better than Frederick?”  

“Do you think that kindness is genuine?”  

“Whether it’s genuine or not doesn’t matter to me.”  

“…What?”  

“It’s not a marriage based on love in the first place. Even if it’s true that he’s projecting someone else onto me, it doesn’t concern me.”  

Michael’s expression crumpled as he quietly replayed Andrea’s words in his mind. He tried to understand her perspective with an open heart, but he still couldn’t.  

If she knew her fiancé was a deranged man, wasn’t it common sense to break off the engagement immediately? No matter how strict and cold the Marquis of Heathridge was as a father, would he truly push his only daughter toward her death?  

‘She says it doesn’t matter if he projects someone else onto her. What kind of nonsense is that?’  

Irritated, Michael clenched Andrea’s undergarment tightly in his fist. He felt as though his insides were burning.  

Of course, there were parts of her argument he could understand. Michael was well aware that most of the marriage proposals Andrea had received were far from ideal. This wasn’t a problem unique to Andrea—it was a reflection of the rotten state of the Hecet noble society, where decent men were almost nonexistent.  

Andrea, unfortunately, possessed all the traits that made her an easy target for such scoundrels. Her striking beauty, the immense wealth tied to the Heathridge name…  

But she lacked any weap*ns to protect herself from them—no supportive family or friends, no favorable reputation, no sharp personality.  

The environment in which Andrea had grown up would only make her more appealing to such men. Despite being far inferior to her in every aspect—status, wealth, looks—they would try to crush her underfoot simply because she had been raised like a delicate flower in a greenhouse.  

Dominating her would allow them to mold her as they pleased, feeding off her wealth while refusing to compromise their pride. This was the common nature of such men.  

‘Still, if we search thoroughly, there must be someone better than Earl Byron…’  

Michael’s train of thought came to an abrupt halt.  

‘Better than Earl Byron… What? There are plenty of better men out there? So just pick the best among them?’  

Michael’s eyes narrowed. A strange sense of suffocation weighed on his chest. No matter how he tried to frame his thoughts, he couldn’t find a satisfying conclusion.  

Sure, Andrea was a good person. If luck was on her side, she might find a decent match. A man who wasn’t bad-looking, came from a respectable family comparable to Heathridge, and had a solid reputation.  

A man who would cover Andrea’s flaws, shield her from the arrows of gossip aimed at her for sport, and cherish her as his wife while remaining loyal to her for life.  

‘If Andrea truly meets such a man, will I feel at peace?’  

Michael’s jaw tightened. He straightened his posture. Reaching out toward the remnants of Andrea scattered carelessly on the sofa, he picked up a white undergarment with its seams torn and threads hanging loose.  

Pressing it to his face, Michael inhaled deeply.  

“Andrea’s scent.”

Michael murmured in a voice steeped in emotion. The cloth that had tightly embraced Andrea’s soft, pale chest carried her unique scent—an intoxicating fragrance that was both like sweet milk and soft powder. Michael felt as though he could bury his face in her chest and breathe in that scent all day long. No, if it were possible, he would willingly pay a fortune for the chance to do so.

As he deeply inhaled Andrea’s scent, Michael’s eyelashes slowly lifted, revealing his green eyes, darker and more subdued than usual. In the dimly lit room, his eyes glowed fiercely.  

‘If another man were to smell this scent…’  

Michael’s mind filled with vivid images of Andrea’s intimate moments. He could clearly picture the soft sway of her chest as she approached him. The memory of her pink-tipped, rounded br*asts, and the sweet moans she couldn’t suppress when he licked them, were enough to send a rush of heat below. Yet, her occasional giggles, as if tickled, were endlessly pure and clean, tugging at his heartstrings.  

The satisfaction of seeing himself reflected entirely in her eyes, sparkling like stars scattered across the night sky. The ecstasy of sliding into her warm, tight, and moist body. The overwhelming fullness he felt when, after their passion, she clung to him like a sated cat, her expression languid. The serenity of exchanging mundane conversations with her, her face puffed from sleep.  

These were feelings he didn’t want to lose, surrender, or share with anyone. Andrea was the only one in the world who could evoke such emotions in Michael. The day Andrea had spoken of their end, and every day since, had been a reaffirmation of that fact.  

Though he didn’t want to admit it, it seemed Michael was the one more reluctant to let go of their relationship. While Andrea prepared for a fresh start with Frederick Byron, he had spent every moment revisiting memories of her, tormenting himself.  

In truth, it had been that way even before. Ever since meeting Andrea, nothing else had seemed as interesting. It was like tasting a rare, fragrant wine, only to find the usual drinks bland and unsatisfying.  

Andrea was the finest wine he had ever tasted, and having known her, he couldn’t go back to enjoying anything lesser. Michael wasn’t the type of man who could live contentedly with mediocrity.  

Perhaps that was why he had been so rough with Andrea that day. He had wanted confirmation—that she felt the same as he did. That she still desired him, and only him. That no one else but him could ever satisfy her in that way.  

When he discovered her body, already wet and dripping before he even touched her, Michael felt a thrill that made his hair stand on end. To him, there was no more honest proof than that.  

He wanted Andrea to discard her reservations and cling to him. With a valid reason to leave Frederick Byron, he hoped she would turn back to him without hesitation.  

‘How childish.’  

The talk of pillow-side pleadings wasn’t just a mischievous joke or idle chatter. If she had even hinted at wanting to return to him, Michael would have reached out to her without hesitation. No, he might have fulfilled even greater demands if she had made them.  

‘But why didn’t I then…’  

Michael suddenly recalled Andrea’s final words before she left.  

“Then… if I ask for love, will you give me that too?”  

“…”  

“If I ask you to love me the way I love you, if I ask you to show me everything without hiding anything, just as I reveal all my vulnerabilities to you…”  

“…”  

“Will you grant me that too?”  

Thump. Michael’s chest sank. The unfamiliar emotion he had felt upon hearing Andrea’s words came rushing back. He ran his dry palm over the back of his neck. As he recalled her trembling voice asking for love, and the look in her eyes, his breath caught. His mouth went dry, and his entire body felt as though it were floating.