“I’m going to send the divorce papers.”

Windsor’s cold declaration hung in the air, but Tilda remained still, her eyes calmly fixed on the blue sky beyond the window.

Seeing her lack of response, Windsor gave a short, dry laugh.
“You’re not even going to ask why?”

Her blue eyes slowly turned to meet his.
“I expected it.”

It had been a month since whispers reached her—rumors that Windsor had hired a team of lawyers and had been making regular visits to the courthouse. She had known this moment would come.

Windsor stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and added.
“And I plan to remarry right after.”

Even then—at such a cutting revelation—Tilda didn’t flinch. She merely blinked, slow and measured.

A faint twitch pulled at Windsor’s brow.
“She’s nothing like you. She’s sweet. Easy to be around.”

“……”
“She’s also highly capable—and she knows how to respect her husband.”

As he continued provocatively, Tilda finally raised her eyes to meet his.
“Good for you.”

Windsor let out a hollow laugh.
Tilda rose from her seat, ignoring the chill in his gaze.

“I’ll be staying at the Belmont estate. Once the divorce papers are ready, send them there.”

Leaning lazily against the back of the sofa, Windsor looked up at her with a sneer.
“Still playing the dignified lady to the very end—how sickening.”
“……”
“Do you even know how much I paid to have you? You have no right to treat me like this.”

Despite the biting remark, Tilda didn’t cry, nor did she grimace.
She seemed used to it—or perhaps she simply accepted his rage.

“Is that why you’re able to stay so proud? Because of that damn House of Vallinea backing you?”
“Leave the House of Vallinea out of this.”

A flicker of coldness passed through Tilda’s eyes.
Vallinea was the sacred noble house her birth mother belonged to.

The Holy House of Vallinea had long stood as a pillar of divine power—producing popes for generations and safeguarding the seas from saltwater corruption through the immense blessings of the goddess Vallinea.
With the authority to appoint emperors, the House of Vallinea held unmatched influence, sitting firmly at the top of the power hierarchy.

But for Tilda, that weighty legacy had always felt distant.

After the death of her birth mother, she had been taken in by her maternal grandfather—the Pope himself—who named her his successor.
Yet despite the lofty title, he treated her with little warmth. It had always been clear: her designation as heir was only provisional, a placeholder until someone more suitable appeared.

Just as she turned to leave, Windsor’s voice rang out behind her.

“You’re not even going to ask who I’m remarrying.”

His cold words cut through the air like a blade, but Tilda’s reply was calm and unwavering.

“Because I don’t care.”

Windsor’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp with disdain.
“Let’s see how long you can keep wearing that proud expression.”

***

Not long after their exchange, Tilda quietly packed her things and left the estate.

Her possessions were few—shockingly so for a countess.
Not a single servant offered to help. The staff only watched from the shadows of the hallway, their eyes filled with poorly hidden pity, as though her fall had already been decided.

In the end, the only one to accompany the carriage bearing her meager belongings was a lone bodyguard—still paid by her husband.

Leaning against the window frame, Tilda quietly watched the scenery blur past.

Outside, flowers in full bloom swayed gently in the spring breeze, their petals fluttering like dancers in motion—but to her, their beauty held no meaning.
The world before her eyes was drained of color, painted in dull shades of gray.

That was how she managed to look so composed, even in the face of her husband’s betrayal.
Even when her heart ached with quiet devastation, she could pretend it didn’t matter.

How could anyone remain truly unaffected, knowing their own husband had mocked them and delivered divorce papers as if it were a mere formality?

But indifference—real or not—was the only armor she had left. Because he was still her husband.
And in the Empire, divorce wasn’t just a personal affair—it was a public scandal.

Once the news broke, society would descend like vultures. People would whisper behind fans, their gazes full of pity or curiosity, watching her like some exotic animal locked in a gilded cage.

In truth… maybe she had always known this day would come.
To Windsor, she had never been more than a rare and costly trophy—admired, displayed, but never cherished.

And still, she had no choice but to accept the marriage back then.

Her father’s house—the once-proud Ducal House of Belmont—had been teetering on the brink of collapse after an unprecedented drought ravaged their lands.
In their desperation, Windsor had stepped forward, a man growing fat on fortune, expressing his desire for her.

And so, she became his wife—traded like a jewel to save her family from ruin.

Windsor Nokilla.

Once upon a time, he was the man who blushed like a boy from the countryside, nervously holding out a wedding ring.
Even if it had all been a transaction at heart—her life bought and sold for the convenience of his house—
there had been a moment, brief and foolish, when Tilda thought perhaps he truly cared.

But that same man had spent their married years tearing down her dignity, chipping away at her pride until only fragments remained.
He crushed her spirit not with violence, but with indifference and disdain, leaving her to suffocate in silence.

And eventually, she had come to hate him with everything she had.

But now? Not even hatred lingered.

She had become like a small boat left to rot on a rocky shore—weather-worn and waterlogged, too broken to repair.
There was nothing left to do but wait for the moment she would finally sink.

Huu…

A quiet breath escaped her lips.

Clatter.
Suddenly, the carriage jerked to a halt.

‘…What is it?’

Tilda leaned out the window to see what had caused the disruption.

A crowd had gathered in the street, buzzing like restless sheep, their voices rising with curiosity and unease.

At the center of the disturbance stood a man, his hand tangled in a woman’s hair, violently pulliing her back.

A vivid bruise bloomed across her cheek like a cruel stain.

“You dare try to run from me, you wretched b*tch?!”

The sound of his fury split through the street—and for a brief moment, Tilda’s world turned as still as glass.

The man was instantly recognizable.
Viscount Douglas—a nouveau riche who had ridden the wave of industrial prosperity straight into nobility, buying his title with coin rather than bloodline.

But for all his wealth, he had no refinement.
His brutish manners and volatile temper were a stain on every social gathering he attended.
Even someone like Tilda, who had long withdrawn from the games of high society, had heard enough hushed conversations to know what kind of man he was.

Most likely, his wife had tried to flee—perhaps after enduring one beating too many—only for him to chase her down as if hunting a stray animal.

Tilda’s brows knit together faintly, a shadow of thought crossing her composed expression.
‘Why are men always like this?’

Just then, her escort cracked open the carriage window and informed her gently.
“It appears the road is blocked, madam. We may need to take a different route.”

Tilda didn’t reply.

Her eyes remained locked on the scene outside—on the precise moment Viscount Douglas lifted his hand high, ready to strike his wife again.

“Madam…?”

Without turning away, she spoke quietly.
“Could you stop that man for me?”

The escort hesitated—but before he could voice it, Tilda calmly extended her hand.

More specifically, her left ring finger.

A large blue diamond glittered under the light—her engagement ring from Windsor.

It had once symbolized status, promise, and power.

Now, to Tilda, it meant absolutely nothing.

The escort swiftly took the ring and, just as Tilda had instructed, pushed through the crowd to confront Viscount Douglas.

Standing before the furious noble, he scowled and called out firmly.
“That’s enough, my lord. Too many eyes are watching.”

Douglas sneered, his grip on the woman’s hair still tight.
“And who the hell are you? Just some lowborn knight sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong!”

His fury hadn’t dimmed in the slightest.
It was said that once Viscount Douglas lost his temper, he saw nothing and no one around him—and clearly, that wasn’t an exaggeration.

“Do not insult the knighthood, you’ll regret it.”

“Regret? Looking at that cheap armor, you’re nothing but a hired sword from some nameless house! I should be punishing you for daring to insult a noble!”

The mention of status made the escort pause.
In this empire, social hierarchy could crush a man—no matter how just his cause.

Watching the scene unfold from inside the carriage, Tilda sighed softly.

‘…I shouldn’t have expected anything more.’

She was just about to step down and face Viscount Douglas herself when—

“The street seems awfully noisy today.”

A calm voice cut through the tension.

A man in pristine white priest’s robes stepped forward, and in an instant, every head turned to him.
The shift in attention was immediate—undeniable. He was someone who could not be ignored.

Despite the pristine white priest’s robe draped over his shoulders, the man’s tall stature, broad frame, and the black sword at his hip made him look far more like a battle-hardened knight than a man of the cloth.

In the Empire, only three priests were granted the right to carry swords—the High Priests, elite warriors of the faith who protected the realm from monsters and saltwater corruption.

And among those three, the one standing before them now—radiating arrogance and authority—was unmistakable.

“It’s Lord Calles!”
“He must be on inspection!”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as heads turned to catch a glimpse of him.
For commoners, he was a rare and awe-inspiring sight.

His silver hair, a sign of overwhelming divine power, shimmered like moonlight. And his face—so flawless it seemed sculpted by the gods themselves—drew the eyes of everyone present.
Several women in the crowd blushed, their gazes lingering a little too long.

Calles stepped forward, his voice cool and clear.
“Are you the one disturbing the peace?”

Viscount Douglas, realizing just who he was facing, froze for a split second—then quickly regained his composure.

“I was merely disciplining my wife. She left our home without reason or gratitude.”

Calles’s gaze sharpened.
“That didn’t look like discipline.”

Douglas straightened his back, puffing up his pride.
“When we married, she was the eldest daughter of a penniless baron. Her family was on the brink of ruin, and I—graciously—took her in. And now, she’s trying to flee without a single word of thanks. Of course I’m angry.”

Calles’s smile twisted, just slightly—a subtle shift, like the first glint of a blade being drawn.

“When a woman marries, she joins her husband’s house and assumes his status. That means your wife now holds the same rank as you. You have no right to treat her as anything less.”

Viscount Douglas’s face turned red with fury.
“Even if she took my name, that doesn’t change the fact that she was born a baron’s daughter! And now you’re saying we’re equals? This is outrageous! An injustice to me!”

Calles let out a quiet sigh, brushing a hand through his silver hair with casual grace.
“Injustice, is it…”

Then his gaze sharpened, locking onto Douglas with a cold clarity.

“So, because she was born with a lower status, you believe that gives you the right to treat your wife that way?”

Douglas didn’t respond. His mouth opened, but no words came.

Calles stepped forward, drawing his sword with a smooth, deliberate motion—its polished blade catching the light as he raised it.

With perfect control, he placed the tip just beneath Viscount Douglas’s jaw.

“Then by that logic, since my status is higher than yours, it would be entirely acceptable for me to do the same to you.”

Silence fell over the crowd like a heavy fog.

“Am I wrong?”

Calles asked, voice low and lethal. There was no mercy in his eyes—only divine judgment, cold and absolute.

Viscount Douglas, staring down the glinting edge of the blade, felt his legs begin to quake beneath him.

“I-I was wrong!”