Knock. Knock. Knock knock.

A familiar knock.

That person. The one who had handed her the medicine and called it a good solution.

Natasha patted Castle and laid the child back down on the bed.

“Mama will be right back.”

Castle’s room opened directly into Natasha’s room.

She pulled Castle’s door firmly shut, then turned on the visitor with a snarl.

“You said nothing like this would happen……! Did you think I’d just sit quietly? I’ll tell everyone. You made me do this to my Castle, and you’re going to pay for it!”

The visitor approached Natasha calmly, took hold of her, and whispered in her ear.

You didn’t tell me the child was a girl either.

Hearing those words, Natasha’s face twisted with fury.

She wanted to grab the person whispering to her by the collar and rage at them then and there.

But.

The words that followed seeped into her and reached something deep and hungry inside her.

If everything came out now, the only one who would benefit was Angela Grace Maister.

Both of them would face punishment and Natasha would be driven out, but Angela would simply be rid of the thorns in her side and go on living splendidly.

‘Right. I can’t just sit back and watch Angela Grace Maister come out on top.’

Natasha stared with wide, burning eyes at the person smiling before her.

She wanted to grab them by the collar, slap them, and scream, but she barely held herself back.

She was furious and felt wronged, but she had no desire to expose the person and let Angela remove the threat.

She wanted Angela to keep suspecting, keep being afraid, keep being eaten alive by not knowing who the killer was.

A woman who had everything and still refused to give Natasha and Castle their due.

Her jealousy toward Angela burned hotter than the anger toward the person in front of her.

In the end, jealousy won over resentment.

Castle had only gained a possibility of infertility. She had not been declared infertile.

Even so, the fact that things had come to this was Angela’s fault.

Natasha wanted to see Angela brought low.

Always lecturing with that superior air, always holding her head high, and Natasha wanted her to keep being mocked, to keep failing to find the killer.

Making the person in front of her pay could wait until then.

Reading her thoughts, the visitor whispered again, telling Natasha what she needed to do next.

Once something had begun, there was no going back.

Natasha had no choice but to nod.

The next day.

Angela waited in the corridor near the maids’ quarters for Emily.

Behind her, the three guards assigned to her stood at their posts.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Heavy footsteps announced a clear presence, and Cyril appeared in his elaborate attire. The outfit might have been excessive on anyone else, but the lace and frills suited him with an infuriating elegance.

Cyril came to a stop at a certain distance.

He always stood one or two steps further from Angela than others tended to.

“Good morning, Countess Maister.”

“Good morning, Lord Knowles.”

It was almost funny. They had met several times now, and yet the distance between them still felt like that of two strangers at a social gathering.

And the faint unease she had felt from the very first moment had remained consistent throughout.

It was a very strange feeling.

Because the real source of that revulsion was someone already dead.

And yet Cyril Knox Knowles provoked the same churning sense of rejection.

She could not explain why.

The closest thing she could call it was the instinctive chill one felt toward a criminal.

If that were all, she could simply write him off as dangerous and be done with it. But alongside that feeling, something else kept pulling her eyes back to him.

It was definitely there, but it was wrapped in thick fog, its shape entirely invisible.

Something she needed to remember but could not.

Something she needed to remember but felt she must not.

That was why Angela tended to overreact when dealing with Cyril.

She had to talk herself down in her own head, again and again.

Angela spoke with deliberate indifference.

“You always make your presence very known.”

“That is probably something only Countess Maister notices.”

“You come making quite a lot of noise.”

Cyril did not answer. He simply smiled quietly.

The smile that slipped out was beautiful enough to catch the eye entirely.

His silver eyes curved softly into crescents, filled with the warmth of someone looking at something they found endearing. The wide lift of his mouth and the brightness of his face were enough to make her forget even her usual discomfort.

Angela stared openly, and Cyril seemed to realize it. He turned his head away sharply and hid his face. He did not forget to take one step back either.

It was somehow irritating enough that she moved toward the side he had turned away to.

“Won’t you show me your face?”

At that, Cyril covered his face with his hand.

Angela stepped closer, and Cyril stepped back.

This happened several times.

Thud.

Cyril’s back met the wall. Jangle. The many ornaments hanging from him clinked together.

Angela stood before him and did not move. She pressed close deliberately, close enough to feel his breath.

Cyril’s silver eyes filled with flustered discomposure.

With nowhere left to retreat, he had no choice but to keep his face covered and turn his head away.

“The last time we met.”

Angela reached out and took hold of his glasses.

Cyril did not push her hand away or tell her to stop.

“You never told me why you wear them.”

The glasses slid off.

The man’s throat moved sharply as he swallowed. The long, strong lines of his collarbone carried a solidity that contrasted with his striking face.

After a brief standoff, Cyril quietly lowered his hand.

With his face turned away, the side profile became clearer. A rounded forehead, a defined nose, and the line leading down to prominent red lips.

Lavender hair fell and shimmered above straight, upward-sweeping brows.

The smile that had curved his eyes was gone, and his face was composed again, but the tips of his ears had gone red. It was a rare sight, genuine embarrassment.

His fine low voice came out with a slight tremor.

“You’ve seen my face now. Please step back.”

“I don’t need you to come closer, but I don’t want you keeping such obvious distance either. If you’re going to avoid me this openly, why did you propose and why did you accept the invitation to this residence?”

“That is……”

For the first time, Cyril’s brow furrowed visibly.

He opened and closed his mouth several times, as though reluctant to speak, and finally let the words out.

“Because I wanted to confirm that Countess Maister was safe.”

“Why would that be your concern?”

“……”

“Is the purpose of your proposal my safety?”

“……”

“Then you would be fine with me choosing another man?”

Silence was the only answer to every question.

She had no intention of choosing any of the three, but she wanted to dig into the thoughts of a man who seemed to be hiding so much.

She was about to press him further, thinking one more push might make him speak, when Cyril’s expression turned serious and he changed the subject.

“I did not come here to have this conversation.”

“Then what did you come to discuss?”

“I came because it seemed you were looking into the movements of the maids who were watching over the child before and after the medicine was taken. I thought I would come and look into it with you.”

For someone said to be shy and uninterested in courtship, there was only one thing that came to mind when he moved like this.

“It seems you wanted to clear yourself of my suspicion.”

“Yes. Everyone must seem suspicious to you, my lady, but at the very least, I have absolutely no intention of harming you.”

“Only me you have no intention of harming?”

At that, Cyril, who had been stepping back the whole time, moved toward Angela.

“Are you conducting a leading interrogation on the assumption that I am the killer?”

The sudden advance made Angela step back quickly, and her foot caught wrong.

She swayed.

‘Oh no.’

This was a man who had refused to reach out even when Lady Barton had been falling toward him during a crisis involving her child. She had no expectation at all that he would catch her.

She was trying her best to regain her balance when Cyril shot out his left hand and caught her at the waist, his other hand gripping her arm.

Their eyes met in that instant.

His silver eyes were genuinely startled. Afraid she might be hurt.

But whether what lay behind that was pure concern, or something derived from a possessive obsession, she could not tell.

She knew that people existed who wanted to pin someone beside them like a pinned butterfly, calling it protection while the pin was already in.