She was relieved to have managed to slip away. As all the balconies were already occupied by guests, she wandered down into the garden.

However, House Matwood’s gardens were as vast as the Grand Duke’s estate. No matter how far she walked, she could not find her way.

She considered retracing her steps. But when she turned around, everything seemed unfamiliar, as though she had stepped into a completely different place.

Ultimately, she had no choice but to keep moving forward.

“If I keep walking, I’ll find the entrance eventually.”

The garden, nestled beneath the night sky, was tranquil. The air was thick with an unfamiliar fragrance, perhaps from imported flowers. Faint music drifted in from afar, accompanied by the soft hum of conversation.

She liked the sound.

“…It’s more comfortable here.”

Murmuring to herself, Sveta wandered slowly along the path. Then, feeling her dress tug sharply, she stopped at once.

Had it caught on a shrub? She gave the tightly stretched fabric a tentative pull.

“It won’t… come loose.”

She tightened her grip on the dress.

At that moment, the sounds of familiar voices — a man’s and a woman’s — drifted out from the second-floor banquet hall balcony into the night.

Sveta lifted her head.

Her eyes met those of Marquess Mattwood.

As she nodded to greet him, Alyona’s sorrow-laden voice suddenly tore through the night air.

“But you saw the expression on His Grace’s face. That look in his eyes was as if…”

Alyona whispered something under her breath, then buried her face in her handkerchief.

She trembled so violently that her raw emotions seemed to carry across the distance.

It felt as though her tears were Sveta’s fault somehow.

Ignoring his daughter’s tears entirely, the Marquess offered Sveta a gentle smile.

But what he said next was wholly unexpected.

“That, too, will not last long. An ornamental flower serves its purpose only until it withers. It need not possess lineage—beauty alone is enough. But you are different.”

An ornamental flower.

For a moment, she stood blankly, then slowly grasped his meaning.

‘He’s insulting me.’

She had thought him a good man.

The realization that the dignified Marquess harbored such thoughts hit her like a blow. In truth, there was no reason for him to view her favorably. Why had she assumed that he did?

How pathetic.

Blaming her own foolishness, Sveta took a step back.

Riiip.

A tearing sound split the air. The delicate fabric, as fragile as petals, had torn. She had forgotten that her skirt was still caught.

She stared down at the ruined hem, absently brushing the cloth between her fingers.

Then, from above her head, came words chosen carefully to hurt.

“My beloved daughter. Have you ever seen someone grow jealous of a flower? There is no need for that. They are not people, after all.”

‘They are not people.’

The cruelty of his words crushed her heart.

In that instant, her senses dulled. The sounds around her blurred and the edges of her vision darkened. As though only her sight remained, Sveta blinked slowly and lifted her gaze to the Marquess.

Only one emotion was evident on his face: Contempt.

Was this how one looked at a corpse crawling with maggots? At black insects writhing over rotting flesh? In their eyes, she was worth even less than that.

The Marquess shook his head slightly, as though repulsed, and spoke again. His voice was as gentle as a spring breeze, yet his words cut like a winter blade.

“When the time comes and your husband no longer looks at that flowerbed, you will be responsible for what happens to the flower. Whether you let it wither or burn it, that responsibility will be yours. So do not cry. Remember this.”

“Remember what?”

“The anger you feel now.”

Though his expression remained mild, his cold gaze carried a sharp and unmistakable intent to kill.

Sveta staggered back. A sudden pain shot through her ankle, and her body tilted off balance.

She fell to the ground without grace, yet the Marquess did not so much as glance at her. He simply placed an arm around Alyona’s back and, with effortless composure, led his daughter away.

A surge of emotion rose in Sveta’s throat like a burning coal, choking and unbearable.

Slowly, she lowered the knee she had used to brace herself and stretched her legs out before her, sitting there in stunned silence.

“What… what is this…?”

Were all nobles like this?

How many times had she been dismissed and treated as though she were worthless? She wanted to flee this suffocating world. She had no desire to go back inside.

If she returned in her current state of misery, the Marquess would undoubtedly greet her with his usual gentle smile, secretly picturing her withered and burned.

She was tired of it all.

Tired of everything.

Tired of the world that Aiden belonged to.

Perhaps, from the very beginning, they had never been meant to stand side by side.

Why had she only realized it now? Only after enduring so much.

Sveta could only blame her own foolishness.

“…Should I just return to the carriage like this?”

But she did not even know the way. Perhaps if she stayed still, the Duke would come looking for her.

Lost in such thoughts—

“Excuse me.”

Sveta lifted her head at the sudden sound of an unfamiliar voice.

Someone was leaning against the balcony railing next to where the Marquess and his daughter had been standing, looking down at her.

“Are you crying?”

“…No.”

“Then why are you sitting there like that?”

The man tilted his head slightly. From the firm, clipped way he spoke, he appeared to be Prisadin.

Was he in his twenties? Although his voice was deep, like a baritone’s, his face was strikingly youthful. He offered her a courteous smile.

Though startled, she responded calmly.

“I can’t find the way back inside.”

“Ah. When you fell and didn’t get up right away, I thought perhaps you were hurt—or crying. Shall I help you?”

“…”

“Of course, only if you permit me.”

How should she respond to this man who spoke so familiarly?

He leaned farther over the railing, as though he might leap down at any moment. Sveta looked up at him.

“…How long have you been standing there?”

“Let’s see. Maybe it was when the grand and illustrious young Lady Mattwood declared, “I hate Father!” Or was it when you fluttered your dress like petals while searching for the path?”

So he had heard everything.

There was no reason she would welcome having witnessed her humiliation. She looked up at him, her expression stiff.

He asked again.

“Shall I help you?”

“…Yes.”

“Wait here.”

Fortunately, he didn’t jump. After watching him disappear through the balcony doors, Sveta slowly got to her feet.

She had meant to ask him to accompany her to the carriage. From there, she had planned to send a servant to deliver a message to the duke.

Not long afterwards, a tall, slender man came hurrying towards her.

“Henrik Meriner.”

“Yes. I am—”

“Sveta Luce. Correct? This way.”

He guided her along the path he had taken. Sveta followed, keeping a measured distance between them.

“Do you know me?”

“To be honest, your hair color threw me off at first. But after hearing what Marquess Mattwood said, I figured it out.”

“Ah…”

She fell silent. She didn’t ask how he knew her. It could hardly be for a flattering reason.

When she had agreed to become the duke’s mistress, she hadn’t imagined that rumors would spread so widely. How naïve she had been!

As her thoughts began to drift down that dark path again, Henrik spoke abruptly.

“You don’t seem to remember me.”

“…Have we met before?”

“At the Baron’s estate.”

No matter how hard she tried to remember, she could not recall ever having seen him before.

At the Luce estate, Sveta was usually required to stay close to Dalia. Baron Luce was a very conservative man.

He believed that the women under his authority should never set eyes on male guests.

‘But he doesn’t seem to be lying.’

After straining her memory to its limits, she finally answered.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need. The timing was unfortunate then—and my attire was hardly appropriate.”

Only then did Sveta glance down at herself.

Layers of thin fabric cascaded from her skirt. The torn section swayed pitifully with every step.

“Um…”

What should she call him?

As her voice trailed off, Henrik seemed to understand.

“You may call me Viscount Meriner. Or Sir Henrik. Whichever is more comfortable.”

“Viscount Meriner… My attire is hardly appropriate this time as well. Please forget what happened tonight.”

“Shall I? Then we’ll each forget once, and that makes it fair. I like your way of accounting.”

Henrik smiled brightly. Beneath his thick brown brows, his gentle eyes curved into narrow crescents.

“I am not like Marquess Matwood. I’m not thinking one thing while pretending another. So you may relax that guarded expression.”

“…”

Sveta lowered her head again. She could not bring herself to form a pleasant expression, so she avoided his gaze instead.

They had taken only a few more steps when he suddenly said,

“Ah, I must take my leave. The Duke has arrived.”

“…”

Henrik stopped walking and turned to face Sveta. He inclined his head slightly and spoke with polite composure.

“I enjoyed our meeting. As promised, I will forget what happened tonight. But I hope you will remember me.”

“Thank you for your help, Viscount Meriner.”

Henrik nodded slightly towards the front, finished his courtesy and stepped past to take his place at the Duke’s right.

Soon, the sound of familiar footsteps cut through the stillness of the midnight garden.

At that moment, the music from the banquet hall — which had been forgotten until now — drifted back to her ears, blending with soft laughter and hushed conversation. From somewhere in the distance, the faint chirping of insects grew louder.

Sound returned to the silent world.

The muscle along Aiden’s sharp jaw tightened.

Then, in a voice edged with restrained anger, he spoke.

“That man is married.”

“…Pardon?”

“I said Henrik Meriner is a married man—with a child.”