Ophelia bolted out of the room before Meryl had finished speaking. Running barefoot, she wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.

Her heart pounded wildly. She couldn’t believe it until she saw it with her own eyes.

Holding her breath, she sprinted down the corridor. By the time she reached the dining hall, the door was ajar.

Ophelia exhaled sharply and pushed it the rest of the way open.

“…Veronica?”

Beyond the doorway, she could make out a small figure.

A round, white cheek, faintly tinged with peach.

Soft lips pressed together.

Short, tiny limbs, no thicker than her little fists.

It was Veronica.

“Ah… my baby… Veronica…”

Ophelia pulled the child into her arms and cradled its soft, small body against her chest.

She was warm.

With trembling hands, she wrapped an arm around the child’s back, pressing her ear to her chest.

Thump, thump, thump.

A steady, clear heartbeat echoed without pause.

She was alive.

“My baby…”

She was breathing.

Only then did the tears she had been holding back spill over.

“…Your Highness?”

Veronica lay quietly in her embrace, not struggling, and blinked up at her.

At that moment, there was a tap, tap.

Footsteps approached, and someone entered the dining hall.

When Ophelia turned her head, the first thing she saw was a cascade of wavy red hair.

“Sister-in-law.”

Rosalyn, Renoir’s half-sister by marriage and now the Countess of Glenn, looked at her.

Glancing at Ophelia, who was holding Veronica, Rosalyn spoke, tilting her chin haughtily.

“Give me some money for a business venture. My husband is starting a wine business, you see. Think of it as an investment.”

Ophelia narrowed her eyes at the familiar sight of someone barging in and demanding money.

“I don’t need much.”

Her tone, her expression, even the request itself—identical.

‘She asked for money for a wine business before too…’

The night she lost her child to Cassandra and Lady Margaret, when she fell from the balcony, it had not been a simple dream.

‘I’ve returned to the time when Veronica was alive.’

Back then too, Rosalyn had used the wine business as an excuse to take investment funds.

‘And if I remember right… the business failed immediately because of issues with the wine supply.’

Rather than asking how much she needed, Ophelia fell into thought.

If Rosalyn wanted business capital, she would find it far easier to get it from her own mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Wilhelm, Caroline.

Why come to her?

The answer came quickly.

‘The Dowager hates it when Glenn insists on running the business. Every time he tries, the business collapses. She’s stopped supporting him altogether.’

So Rosalyn had come to Ophelia instead.

“…If you tell the Dowager, she’ll help you.”

“Honestly, are you stupid? Mother already said she won’t help this time. And she’s at the villa right now, not at the marquisate.”

“…”

“Anyway, I don’t have time to stand around chatting with you. I’m busy, so I’ll collect the money from the butler myself.”

It wasn’t the attitude of someone seeking permission. It was more like a decree — one that assumed Ophelia wouldn’t even think of saying no.

‘…If I just give it to her, she’ll stay quiet for a while.’

Back then, Renoir didn’t care much, so she gave her the money without protesting.

But she couldn’t do that anymore.

Whenever Ophelia let Rosalyn walk all over her, that dismissive gaze would eventually turn towards Veronica, too.

Everything was unfolding exactly as it had before.

If she wanted her child to be treated with dignity, she knew she had to do something about it.

Ophelia drew in a slow breath and spoke.

“That won’t be possible.”

“…What?”

Rosalyn’s brows pulled taut in an instant.

“Not today, and not at any point in the future will I fund the Glenn family’s business ventures.”

“…Sister-in-law, have you lost your mind?”

Veronica flinched anxiously in Ophelia’s arms at her sharpening tone.

Ophelia put the child down and shielded her by standing behind her.

“If Mother hears about this—!”

“And when she hears, what then?”

Ophelia met Rosalyn’s eyes squarely. When she stepped closer, Rosalyn stumbled back, startled.

“No matter what the Dowager thinks, she cannot touch me. I am a princess of Quilche. It’s laughable that a mere countess thinks she can speak down to me.”

Rosalyn’s face twisted, red with fury.

“…As if being a bastard from a lowborn dancer’s womb makes you any better.”

Ophelia’s violet eyes chilled instantly.

“My mother may have once been a dancer from Larne, but she is a consort of the king. Calling me a bastard or belittling her is no different from insulting His Majesty.”

A flicker of unease crossed Rosalyn’s gaze.

“Know your place—and do not commit further disrespect.”

“…”

“Conduct yourself wisely.”

Ophelia shifted her gaze to the butler, who had been watching the exchange with interest.

“Butler.”

“…Yes, my lady.”

“Escort the Countess of Glenn out immediately. And do not allow her into the marquisate again without permission. If this incident repeats, I will hold you personally responsible.”

“…I understand.”

Sensing the gravity of her tone, the butler bowed deeply.

Rosalyn’s face flushed with humiliation as she glared at Ophelia and shouted, her voice almost shrill.

“…I’ll never forget how you treated me today…!”

Rosalyn ground her teeth together as she stomped towards the door, flung it open, and stormed out.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

“Your Highness…”

Veronica lifted her head slightly and met her eyes. The child’s gaze trembled with fear.

“You were scared, weren’t you, my love? It’s all right now. Don’t worry.”

Ophelia soothed her gently, and little by little, the fear faded from Veronica’s face.

“…Mm. Bebe won’t worry. Bebe trusts Your Highness.”

Only then did it strike her.

Veronica had never once called her mother.

She always said Your Highness, just like everyone else.

‘Is it because I frightened her? Because I never reached out before?’

It was selfish, perhaps—but she wanted to hear the word mother.

“…Why do you call me ‘Your Highness’? You can call me mommy…”

Veronica hesitated, then pressed her rosy lips together before speaking.

“If Bebe… calls you ‘Your Highness,’ then Grandma and Auntie will… call you that too. But you’re a princess, and nobody calls you that…”

Ophelia’s eyes widened at the unexpected explanation.

“The truth is… Bebe wanted to call you mommy more.”

It was Ophelia who was being disrespected.

She hated that.

She had done it on purpose. It wasn’t because Ophelia was difficult to approach.

Veronica wrapped her small, plump arms around Ophelia’s waist. Then she pressed her cheek to hers and let out a tiny laugh.

“…Mommy.”

“…Yes, my love.”

“Bebe will be a good girl. So tomorrow, and the day after that, keep holding Bebe…”

Her throat tightened, but she had to say something.

Ophelia steadied her voice.

“…You don’t have to be good. You can throw tantrums, you can whine. If you want something, you can cry and roll on the floor.”

She bent down so their eyes were level, taking Veronica’s small, delicate hand in her own.

“Even then, I’ll hold you. I’ll love you just the same.”

“…Why? Even if Bebe is bad, you’ll still love me?”

“…Veronica. Not once—not ever—have I stopped loving you. Can you believe that?”

Veronica scrunched up her nose and then smiled.

“…Mm.”

She stretched both arms out, asking to be held. Ophelia slipped her hand under the child’s legs and lifted her up.

“Mommy, let’s eat lunch outside. The weather is pretty today. I think the sunshine is sparkly because it’s happy like Bebe.”

It was both endearing and heartbreaking how delighted she was by such a small thing.

‘Why didn’t I… sooner…’

Ophelia swallowed the swell of emotion and managed to answer.

“…Shall we?”

As they stepped outside, she signaled a waiting maid to prepare food in the garden.

“Mommy, the chef said today’s snack is strawberry cake—Bebe’s favorite!”

Smiling at Veronica’s excited chatter, she headed toward the entrance.

‘…Is something wrong?’

Veronica suddenly drew in a sharp breath, prompting Ophelia to look up in confusion.

A man stood there, as silent as a shadow. His uniform was trimmed with gold, which caught the light with each of his movements.

His hair was as dark as the midnight sky.

His deep blue eyes were lowered beneath long lashes.

He had a sharp, perfectly sculpted profile — nose, jawline and lips — every line cut with effortless precision.

When those cold blue eyes swept over her—

Ophelia froze.

As always, his gaze felt as if it could cut straight through a person.

He was the Lieutenant Commander of the Quilche Navy.

Marquess of Wilhelm: Renoir Wilhelm.

The man she despised more than anyone else in the world.

Her husband.