After the spy had left, another guest arrived.

Leaning back in his chair, Aiden lifted one corner of his mouth in a crooked smile. It was a subtle expression, but beneath it, an unmistakable anger simmered.

Henrik Mariner sensed the tension immediately, stiffening and drawing his neck in slightly.

When he finally took his seat opposite Aiden, he spoke without hesitation.

“Did you meet her?”

There was no courtesy in his voice, only n*ked condescension.

For a moment, Henrik Mariner’s expression hardened. However, he quickly regained his composure and replied with restrained politeness.

“Because of Your Grace’s interference, she no longer visits the coffee house.”

“I’m not asking about that.”

“…”

The coward of Prisada rolled his eyes before replying.

“Whatever it is you wish to ask, you’re wasting your time.”

“Why.”

“I exchanged nothing more than a brief greeting with Lady Luce.”

“A brief greeting…”

“Do you not trust her?”

“As if.”

‘Do I not trust her?’

‘No, that wasn’t it.’

He simply didn’t want to share her with anyone.

Everything he intended to possess included a passing touch, a fleeting glance, or even the slightest hint of a smile from her.

Henrik Mariner pressed his lips tightly together. The affable curve of his eyes hardened noticeably.

“Then why have you summoned me?”

“If I hand over Jace Gould.”

At the name Jace Gould, Henrik’s thick brown brows, which had been drawn together, slowly relaxed.

“Did I not say I would grant you anything?”

“Of course, Your Grace. Once Her Majesty of Leparda makes a decision, she rarely reverses it. The offer still stands.”

Aiden opened a drawer and withdrew a letter. In a voice devoid of rise or fall, he asked.

“Was your queen’s resentment truly so deep?”

“You know it well enough. Beyond the personal vengeance for her sister’s death, there are political aims as well.”

“Jace Gould will die spectacularly.”

“…There will likely be a public burning.”

Every kingdom on the continent was after Jace Gould’s head.

A competition had emerged to see which nation would capture the culprit responsible for the murders of royal and noble heirs alike first.

His execution carried immense political symbolism. Given Queen Leparda’s authoritarian temperament, burning at the stake would hardly be an excessive punishment.

“There is only one thing I desire.”

“…”

Thud.

Aiden stamped the seal and tossed the letter before Henrik.

“I will grant you a fortnight’s grace. Conclude your investigation of Baron Luce and leave my lands.”

“You wish the letter delivered to Her Majesty within a month.”

“You are quick to understand.”

“As it happens, I was planning to stop by Czernok on my way to Prisada. I have obtained what I wanted. The letter will be delivered by courier immediately.”

Henrik Mariner smiled faintly.

***

Two days later.

Through the pouring rain, a carriage bearing the crest of House Matwood arrived at the ducal estate.

“My lord is waiting.”

Despite the weather, Alyona Matwood wore a trailing satin dress and was escorted to the reception room.

Her feet hurriedly struck the carpet beneath the elegantly sweeping hem. It was as if her unsettled heart was pushing her forward.

At last, the gold-paneled doors opened on both sides.

Alyona entered and took a seat opposite Aiden.

“I received the order form.”

After giving her a brief glance, Aiden spoke. It was somewhat discourteous of him to omit a greeting from his first remark. However, Alyona generously chose to overlook such things.

His low, subdued voice deepened the atmosphere of the rainy afternoon. A faint thrill warmed her ears.

“I selected it carefully, befitting our standing.”

“You have done well. It is indeed a costly necklace.”

‘Done well…?’

For the first time, he had offered her praise.

Now flushed even to her cheeks, Alyona lifted the teacup before her and took a sip.

‘What is this…?!’

The bitterness was shocking. She could barely swallow the tea. It felt as though her taste buds were being burned away.

“What kind of tea is—”

“Does it not suit your palate?”

“Of course not. How could anyone serve such— You ought to dismiss the maid who brewed this at once, Your Grace.”

He tilted his head slightly. The outline of his broad frame, caught in the dim backlight, appeared immense.

His well-shaped red lips curved faintly.

‘He… can smile?’

Though Aiden erased the smile in an instant, the afterimage lingered like a tremor, shaking Alyona’s heart.

“Have you finished it?”

“I cannot drink another drop, Aiden.”

Aiden’s brows suddenly drew together. An expression of deep displeasure settled over his perfectly composed face.

“I never granted you permission to use my name.”

He was like the tip of an arrow: sensitive and razor-sharp.

Although the rejection was merciless, Alyona forced herself to think of the dress and ruby necklace he had bought for her.

What he had bought for her. Mine. My man…

Yes. What did a name matter in the end?

This man would belong to her either way. Once they were living together, a name would come naturally.

In a soft, coaxing tone, Alyona tried to calm him down.

“Have I made another mistake? Since Your Grace served me such bitter tea, let us call it even.”

“…”

Without saying a word, he lifted his teacup.

This gesture alone made his meaning clear: the tea had never been a mistake.

A faint pang of hurt rose within her. Yet the moment her eyes met his radiant face, that fragile feeling shattered and vanished as if it had never existed.

Outside, the rain dimmed the world.

Perhaps the sun had disappeared because he was standing before her now. Perhaps that was why midday felt strangely dark.

This absurd thought took root and quietly spread through her mind.

Yes.

This man — like the sun — existed for no other reason than to shine upon her.

Alyona’s lips curved into a sharp, elegant smile.

“I summoned you today because I have something to give you.”

“Oh my. After the dress and the necklace, you have more to give? What could it be?”

Without making a sound, Aiden put down his teacup and signaled to his attendant.

The doors opened immediately and a line of servants entered. They were carrying leather pouches that looked all too familiar.

“What is that?”

“…”

He did not answer.

Unease creeping in, Alyona demanded sharply.

“That… What is that, Your Grace?”

Instead of replying, Aiden raised his teacup again.

By then, more than a dozen servants had stacked the leather pouches like sacks of grain, one on top of another, before retreating like the tide pulling back from the shore.

Alyona counted them.

There were easily ten times more than she had ordered to be delivered to the duke’s mistress.

“Take them, Lady Matwood.”

“…M-me?”

“The cost of the dress and the necklace.”

His green eyes, devoid of emotion, fixed on her. For some reason, her gaze felt as though it were tightening around her throat.

Alyona drew in a sharp breath.

“B-but, Your Grace. This would damage my dignity.”

“Was your dignity damaged when my woman carried those pouches?”

“…”

She clenched her teeth and endured it.

Such petty retaliation! From the highest-ranking man in Aetania, of all people! Strilland himself! To stoop to something so childish… all because of a mistress.

Was she really going to have to endure this humiliation because of one courtesan?

“Alyona Matwood.”

At the firm pronunciation of her name, she jerked her head up.

“Take them.”

It was a quiet command.

A single, flat sentence. She could have ignored it.

Yet, for some reason, she could not.

Before she knew it, Alyona had risen and grasped the end of one of the leather pouches.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not lift it.

“Carry them. Yourself.”

“Your Grace, how… how can you do this to me?”

Aiden slowly crossed his legs.

He sipped his tea as though it were wine, making an elegant and decadent gesture. The voice that slipped past his crimson lips had the same quality.

But the meaning beneath it was savage.

“It would have been wise to listen when I told you to know your place.”

“I don’t understand. The one who doesn’t know her place is Your Grace’s mistress! I am your fiancée. Was it truly necessary to be this cruel to a woman?”

“I have never regarded you as a woman.”

“What?”

Her jaw fell open on its own.

As Alyona stared blankly at the money pouches, he gestured toward them—telling her to lift them.

“I regard you as the heir of House Matwood. You are the child of a marquessate with no title or political influence. So when you challenge me, it shows that you don’t know your place.”

“…”

Her jaw trembled.

The emotions that had been building up inside her spilled over, manifesting as hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

Only now did she truly understand how merciless the words ‘know your place’ could be.

That arrogant, cruel man, whose words were as venomous as a snake’s bite, had once again wounded her.

“Even if you never wear the dress, you need not return the money.”

***

After Sveta returned from Czernok, Dalia’s daily routine resumed, too.

Every morning, she hurried to her daughter’s bedroom and waited for the maid to emerge. The moment she appeared, Dalia would ask her where the duke had spent the night.

Then, at afternoon tea time, she would ask the maid who the duke had been strolling with.

The answers were always the same.

“He slept in the young lady’s chamber.”

“He is in the garden with the young lady.”

Because of Jace Gould, her life had once been driven into the ground. Now, it seemed it might shine again.

‘Sveta. Thanks to that charming little thing!’

Hidden behind a pillar at the end of the corridor, Dalia waited for the Duke and his stepdaughter to enter the bedroom together.

This had become her latest evening ritual.

Seeing her secure and comfortable future unfold before her eyes helped her sleep peacefully.

Soon, the familiar sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by the opening of the bedroom door.

Dalia cautiously leaned her head out and watched them from her hiding place.

Sveta was wearing a sky-blue dress that left her slender shoulders bare.

“I don’t remember that dress. That gloomy black hair of hers actually suits sky blue quite well.”

The words slipped out unconsciously.

Then, suddenly, a spark flared in Dalia’s mind.

A long-buried memory rose to the surface of her consciousness: Black hair. Sky blue…

“…No.”

Dalia shook her head, forcing away the thought that had struck her like lightning.

“That can’t be… What a ridiculous idea. She’s dead.”

Yes, it was impossible.

It could only have been an illusion born of guilt.

The thought that had just surfaced was undoubtedly the product of her long-standing guilty conscience.

The infant princess of Prisada, wrapped in a sky-blue swaddling cloth and crying stubbornly, was merely a ghost from her past, still haunting her.