The Show-Window Couple.

That was how society referred to the Duke and Duchess of Blair.

For generations, the dukedom of Blair and the marquisate of Amaranth, whose territories bordered one another, had been locked in endless disputes. When their centuries of hostility finally resulted in open bloodshed in Conchesta, the imperial capital under the emperor’s direct rule, the Solarium throne imposed drastic measures.

As a token of reconciliation, Duke Sihon Blair of House Blair was commanded to wed Lady Arwen Amaranth, daughter of the Marquis of Amaranth.

A union decreed by the Emperor, forged without either party’s consent. It was no wonder the Blair couple’s marriage had been anything but harmonious.

Except for obligatory appearances together at social functions, Sihon and Arwen scarcely spoke—rarely even met each other’s eyes.

Now, four years into their marriage, the tally was pitiful: five shared meals in private, three teatimes, and seven visits made out of necessity to one another’s chambers.

Above all, they had never once consummated their marriage.

The public speculated, Surely they at least shared the bridal chamber that first night, but the truth was harsher still.

In every sense, theirs was a marriage in name alone.

And yet, by some strange whim—

One day, Arwen did something wholly unexpected: she invited Sihon to tea.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?”

It happened by chance, when they returned from separate outings and crossed paths at the front gate.

As always, neither cared to ask whom the other had met or for what business they had gone out. It was just another ordinary day.

Sihon was faintly surprised.

It had been a long while since Arwen had spoken to him first.

Once, there had been a time when she had tried to close the distance between them—but his cold indifference had eventually silenced her attempts.

‘What on earth is she plotting?’

Half of him felt defensive, uneasy.

‘For this proud woman to set aside her pride and speak to me… does she have some urgent reason?’

And yet, the other half was touched by a faint, human concern.

In the end, though not entirely willing, his thoughts leaned toward: A wife is still a wife, even in name only.

“Very well.”

Duke Sihon Blair accepted her proposal without fuss.

And so, for the first time in a long while, the ducal couple shared tea in Arwen’s chambers.

Upon the table draped in white lace lay a pearl-toned teapot, silver-rimmed cups, and an assortment of colorful confections—macarons, cookies, and miniature tarts, all elegantly arranged.

The macarons were exquisite—crafted into roses, sunflowers, hydrangeas, their petals embroidered with icing and scattered with gold leaf. They were so beautiful they seemed too precious to bite into, more art than pastry.

“These are from Blooming Garden’s newest selection,” Arwen explained. “They’re quite costly, but considering the intricate steps required to create even a single macaron, the price is not entirely unreasonable.”

“They are certainly… elaborate.”

‘Was this her taste all along?’

With a faint, ironic smile, he noted the way she delicately bit into a pink rose-shaped macaron before he reached for the least ostentatious sweet he could find.

Lifting the silver teapot with grace, Arwen poured into her cup and at last broke the silence.

“Among the nobility, I am the ‘shrew,’ while you are praised as the ‘good husband.’ No matter what disgrace I cause, they say you still fulfill your duty as a husband. And in a sense, I agree. For though you despise me, you neither strike me nor cast me aside. In that, you endure much.”

“What is it you are trying to say? If this is an attempt to excuse yourself for slapping Lady Danae Hudson the other day, then there is no need.”

“You don’t seem angry at all.”

“I know she was the one who mocked you first.”

“And apart from that—you have neither expectations of me, nor disappointments.”

“I won’t deny it.”

Sihon admitted it without hesitation. Arwen did not flinch.

“Of course. From the very beginning, you despised me as nothing more than ‘the marquis’s daughter from a hostile house.’ Through me, you saw only House Amaranth. No wonder every effort I made to draw closer to you looked like pretense, like some ploy. You never intended to live a true married life with me. That’s why you made ready to adopt your cousin’s son, Lord Vanessa, as heir.”

“My marriage may be troubled, but I cannot let my house’s line be broken.”

Glancing briefly down at his teacup, Sihon raised his eyes again.

There was no trace of poison. He had not truly believed there would be—though for an instant, the thought had crossed his mind.

Arwen noticed. Even in that fleeting moment, she knew exactly what he had checked.

And yet, she showed no offense. Between them, there had never been trust to betray.

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them.

“I understand your decision. If you are going to adopt an heir, it’s better to bring him in early and start training him. And yes, the right to decide belongs to you. But the way you went about it was wrong. I did not expect consultation, but could you not at least have told me first? Did you ever consider how I felt, only learning the truth after Lady Leona, his mother, strolled freely through the ducal manor while the servants whispered behind my back? To realize then that I meant nothing to you?”

Though she tried to restrain it, her voice trembled helplessly.

Her hands quivered as she clasped them tight together, and Sihon gave the same answer he always had.

“As I’ve said before, I don’t find you intolerable. It’s your father, and your house, that I cannot abide.”

He sighed wearily, turning his gaze away as he raised the cup. The tea had long since cooled to a lukewarm temperature.

How many times had she heard those words?

In those days, when she still longed to be close to him, she would timidly ask if she had done something wrong or fallen short in some way. He would push her away, saying ‘Don’t try’, and always add that same refrain.

Now, at what might be their last teatime together as husband and wife, Arwen finally spoke the words she had held back for years.

“Even if I was never cherished in my marquis’s house—even if I was only ever mistreated—so it is, isn’t it? In the end, noblemen are all the same. To you, as to them, a woman is nothing but a piece of her family’s property.”

“What? What do you mean…?”

“Exactly what I said. Cursing, starving, beating. How could I ever feel affection for that household?”

“Now that you mention it… I do recall seeing bruises sometimes—on your wrist, or when you staggered. I thought you’d merely tripped or bumped into something. But… were those all signs of abuse?”

“I couldn’t say what you saw. But one thing’s certain—no matter how clumsy someone may be, no one lives with bruises all year round.”

Arwen’s answer was calm, as though she were speaking of someone else’s life.

And in that composure was the unmistakable message—she had never expected anything from him.

Frustration tightened in Sihon’s chest. With a sigh, he pressed her.

“If I had known, I would have paid attention sooner. Why didn’t you tell me… No—why, in the first place, did the Marquis of Amaranth abuse you?”

To Sihon, Arwen Amaranth had always been a proud, imperious lady—swathed in silks and jewels, aloof and cold, unhesitant to wield her birth and station to press others down.

The thought of that Arwen being trampled underfoot, forced to bow, was impossible to imagine.

But his shock was premature.

“To be precise, Marquis Kyle Amaranth was just an onlooker. The instigator was his wife, Lady Mave Amaranth. The truth is, I am Lydia, I am an illegitimate child. I am not the real Lady Arwen Amaranth.”

“What happened to the real Lady Arwen Amaranth, the woman I was engaged to? I’ve never heard any news about her death.”

“She died twelve years ago. A gravestone was raised for her, but she was denied the funeral befitting a noblewoman. They needed a replacement to marry off. And so, they chose me. Perhaps that’s why she despised me even more—for living her dead daughter’s life, for taking what should have been hers.”

“So… this was a fraudulent marriage.”

Sihon let out a bitter laugh. His mouth felt dry.

It was not anger at the woman before him.

Twelve years ago, she would have been only twelve herself.

What power could an illegitimate girl have had?

Of course it had been the marquis’s will, a scheme carried out in cold calculation. Paradoxical though it was, even with their houses at enmity, the marriage to the Blair line had been too advantageous to refuse.

At his bitter laugh, Arwen—or rather, Lydia—lowered her gaze, her expression one of weary resignation.

Perhaps it was a mercy, she thought, that he was not furious enough to seize her throat on the spot.

“That’s why I couldn’t tell you about the abuse. To admit it would mean revealing that I was a fraud. You already despised me—if on top of that I became branded as ‘the woman who deceived you with tainted blood,’ it would only have deepened your disgust.”

At this point, she had half expected those words to come.

Something like—How dare a lowborn insect pretend to be the real thing, or The thought of filth like you staining my family register makes my skin crawl.

But the reply that came was nothing like what she had imagined.

“No. Being born illegitimate, being used as a pawn by the marquis—none of that is your fault. You are neither filthy nor base. To judge you solely as a member of House Amaranth, without ever once considering your circumstances—that was my mistake, and mine alone.”

Lydia froze, startled by the unexpected defense.

But their conversation went no further.

“Too late as it may be, I should have treated you without prejudice from the start—”

“Gh—!”

His eyes widened with sudden agony.

Sihon staggered, clutching at his mouth.

Thick, sticky blood burst forth like a fountain, seeping helplessly through his trembling fingers.

Slowly, inexorably, his body pitched forward.

Thud!

Lydia stared blankly at her fallen husband.

It had happened so suddenly, it scarcely felt real.

Sihon forced his eyes open against the weight dragging them shut, his lips moving soundlessly.

It was hard to tell whether he was asking why, or demanding to know where the poison had been slipped.

There had never been trust between them—so perhaps it was the latter.

Lydia murmured, almost absently:

“Sadly, it’s too late to turn back. The poisoned ice has already melted.”

That was the secret.

They had both drunk the same tea from the same silver service. However, while Lydia had finished her cup before the ice had dissolved, Sihon had savored his slowly, effectively swallowing death with every sip.

She looked down at her husband, who lay motionless, for a moment, then turned away without a hint of regret.

Their bond had been deteriorating for a long time.

From the outset, their marriage was doomed to fail.

For a moment, his outstretched hand — his final gesture — had unsettled her.

But no sorrow lingered.

Not unless time could be turned back.

At last, this horrific marriage was finished.