Time passed smoothly, and before long, ten days had gone by.

“How does it look?”

Rene Pedy and the staff from the dress shop had come in person, announcing that the commissioned gown was complete.

Wearing the finished dress, Sveta studied herself in the mirror.

Overall, it was a modest gown. The rounded neckline revealed the delicate line of her collarbones and a hint of her upper chest.

“Are you pleased with it?”

“I am.”

Without much thought, Sveta gave Rene the answer she seemed to want.

New clothes and worn clothes. Rough fabric and soft fabric. Thin linen and thick winter fur…

That was the extent of how Sveta distinguished garments. It was an undeniable lack of refinement.

Of course, she could flawlessly imitate the manners and bearing of a noble lady.

After being entered into the baron’s household registry, she had endured harsh etiquette training under the baroness.

But the cultivated eye—an aesthetic sensibility refined over long years—was something she did not possess.

In many ways, she did not suit Aiden.

“Now it is time to choose your accessories.”

Sveta lifted her gaze from where it had been lowered at an angle.

At once, the three attendants standing behind her opened shallow wooden boxes.

Upon gleaming red velvet lay a necklace, earrings, and a ring, each arranged with care.

“You may choose one of these three.”

Ruby, sapphire, diamond.

Sveta’s gaze lingered briefly over the gemstones of different hues before turning to Rene.

“I’ll take the diamond.”

“As expected, you have excellent taste. It will highlight your black hair and fair complexion beautifully…! And it won’t look too heavy, either.”

The praise was pleasant to hear, but Sveta could easily guess at the difficulty underlying Rene’s enthusiasm.

Handling dresses for both the duke’s fiancée and his mistress at the same time must have been awkward.

“Did you hear? The Baron Norian and the mistress bought similar dresses from the same shop.”

The silent war between a noble lady and a mistress—her stepmother had told her such stories countless times.

And in those tales, it was usually the mistress who emerged victorious.

But Sveta had no intention of doing so. She meant to remain flattened in the shadows, like a quiet silhouette.

‘If I had my way, I wouldn’t even attend the engagement ceremony…’

“It will pair perfectly with the ivory gown you’ll be wearing, my lady.”

“…”

“As for that dress… The lustrous, delicate muslin was imported from the New World. And the finest lace layered along the hem was crafted over several months by an artisan in Sweenia.”

“…I like it. Thank you.”

When Sveta nodded, two attendants helped her out of the gown.

Dressed once more in her indoor linen dress, she turned subtly to Rene, who seemed to be waiting for dismissal.

“About the Sweenian dress I purchased last year.”

“You mean the lilac one? The one with the bold neckline.”

“Unfortunately, it tore and can no longer be worn.”

For a fleeting instant, a bright smile appeared on Rene’s face—then vanished.

“Shall we place a new order?”

“If I were to order it again, how long would it take?”

“Well… Even if we submit the order immediately, it would take at least fifteen days just for delivery. You would need to wait no less than four months in total.”

‘Fifteen days just for transport.’

Sveta repeated the detail silently.

On the map she had seen in the office, Sweenia bordered Czernok.

That meant if she reached Czernok, she could slip across into Sweenia.

Aiden had clearly said he would take her to the hunting festival.

‘But if he changes his mind and orders me to remain at the estate.’

Then she could flee to Czernok and cross the border from there.

Czernok was where she had once begged to survive, and the baron’s estate was nearby as well.

‘I’m somewhat familiar with Czernok. That might be the better option.’

Having roughly settled her thoughts, Sveta shook her head lightly at the hopeful-looking Rene.

“…I don’t think I’ll need a new dress for the time being.”

***

On the last day of June, the engagement ceremony of Duke Strilland was held.

Out of consideration for the queen’s dignity—since marriage negotiations had once taken place—the ceremony was kept deliberately modest. Only the immediate families of both houses, a handful of close acquaintances and their relatives, the vassals of House Strilland, several foreign ambassadors indebted to House Matwood, and a high priest dispatched from the Neutral Temple with his assistant were invited.

Even so, the number of guests easily exceeded one hundred. Yet for an engagement between two such powerful houses, it was undeniably small.

They gathered in the main building of the ducal estate.

Brilliant sunlight streamed through the towering windows of the grand hall, spilling across the vast mirror that covered the opposite wall and scattering light throughout the chamber.

Amid that dazzling radiance stood Aiden, dressed in a white ceremonial uniform tailored from the finest fabric. A long golden mantle draped over his shoulders, catching the light with every subtle movement.

From a distance, Sveta watched him.

Then, as if drawn by instinct, his gaze lifted—and locked directly onto hers.

“My lady, are you all right?”

Pailin asked as Sveta swayed slightly, his large, ox-like eyes filled with concern.

“Yes. I’m fine, Sir. My ankle is simply a little uncomfortable.”

“…”

“It’s only because the heels are high. There’s no need to worry.”

“That is a relief.”

Sveta gave a faint smile and turned her head again.

At the edge of her vision, she caught sight of someone familiar.

‘That person is…’

Henrik Meriner. A Prisadan she had met at the Matwood banquet.

His gentle eyes curved as he gave her a slight nod of greeting. Sveta answered with a small incline of her head.

At that moment, the scattered murmurs throughout the hall faded into silence. A solemn bell tolled, and the engagement ceremony began.

Standing beside the duke was Alyona Matwood, dressed in a silk gown that fit her slender waist perfectly. She was dazzling—truly radiant.

The skirt flared wide with every subtle movement, rippling in lavish waves. Each time it swayed, the beads and pearls sewn thickly along the hem caught the sunlight and scattered it in shimmering fragments across the hall.

The brilliance struck Sveta’s eyes sharply. She frowned slightly and turned to Pailin, who stood behind her, to ask—

“I heard the former duke would be attending.”

“He will arrive in time for the evening banquet.”

“I see.”

“…”

“What kind of person is he?”

After a brief silence, Pailin replied.

“…A man worthy of the name Strilland.”

“Then he must be similar to the duke.”

“Yes.”

Aiden’s sharp green gaze turned toward Sveta once more.

As others followed the trajectory of his stare, their eyes, too, began drifting toward her one by one.

A faint murmur rose again.

The duke’s mistress attending his engagement ceremony.

‘How ridiculous I must look.’

Sveta lowered her eyes halfway. Her lashes trembled faintly at the edge of her vision.

Suddenly, she recalled that spring day when bright yellow daffodils had been in full bloom—the first time she had seen Alyona Matwood.

“This young lady seems not to know her place.”

Alyona’s cutting remark from that day echoed in her mind.

‘It was just like this then…’

The young Marchioness of Matwood had walked side by side with Aiden, while she had watched from afar.

The memory brought a burning sensation to her eyes. Sveta squeezed them shut.

A mistress who does not know her place. A low-born woman. An ornamental plant.

She shook her head faintly to drive away the words that surged in and seized her thoughts.

‘No. That’s wrong.’

The Marchioness of Matwood had been wrong.

Sveta had never forgotten her place.

She had never resolved to stand beside the duke as his equal. She had never allowed herself to harbor such a fragile hope, because he had never promised her a future.

It was a heart leaning to one side. A relationship out of balance.

What Sveta had once longed for was his heart. All Aiden wanted was her body.

Perhaps together they might have formed something whole. But divided between them, they could only ever be incomplete.

Now, however, Sveta could finally accept the end of something so painfully unfinished.

Suppressing the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, Sveta slowly opened her eyes.

“Your Graces, please step forward.”

The priest, speaking with emphasis, unfurled a large scroll.

On the signed document, Aiden pressed his signet ring firmly.

Next, the Marquis of Matwood, appearing slightly tense, stamped his seal upon it as well.

The priest recited a prayer blessing the union of the two houses, and the duke and his fiancée faced one another.

“Next, you will exchange rings.”

When the assistant priest approached with the ring box, Sveta instinctively stepped back.

The lid rose slowly.

White sunlight pouring through the tall windows struck the gemstones set into the rings, and they flared with a brilliant, blinding light.

She frowned and turned her face away.

The mistress who knew her place withdrew quietly into the shadows.

The moment the rings were exchanged, sealing the engagement, the ceremony came to an end.

The duke had hurried the priest along, a fierce light in his eyes after noticing that his mistress had slipped away.

Pailin did not follow her.

There were only a few places she would go—her bedchamber, the glass conservatory, the stables, or the garden.

She was wearing unfamiliar, uncomfortable heels. He was certain he could catch up to her at any time.

And above all…

For reasons he could not fully explain, he felt she would not want anyone to witness her humiliation.

Then the duke called for him.

“You called for me, my lord?”

With his fiancée standing stiffly at his side like a doll, the duke asked.

“Sveta.”

“She has stepped out. Shall I bring her back?”

At those words, the young Marchioness of Matwood stirred. The refracted light from the jewels embedded in her gown stabbed mercilessly into his eyes.

Pailin simply closed them.

“No. I will go myself.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You need not follow.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Pailin bowed his head.

Even with his gaze lowered, beams of light shot toward him again. The young Marchioness had moved to follow the duke.

Her voice, heavy with displeasure, rang out.

“Your Grace, what about me?”

“You may attend the evening banquet with your father.”

“But Your Grace is going after that harlot—”

The duke violently shook off the hand that had grabbed his arm.

“How dare you.”

The young Marchioness blinked in confusion.

“…Pardon?”

“That is enough. Do not cross the line, Lady Matwood.”

“What do you mean—”

The duke’s cold gaze swept sharply over her ash-gray eyes.

“Know your place.”