For a brief moment, Logan thought he understood Bella.

She often seemed emotionally distant, as if she kept herself carefully separate from the world. Yet every now and then, she would smile softly and almost shyly. Whenever she was praised, she would shake her head in quiet denial, the tips of her ears turning red despite herself. She seemed self-conscious about her humble life as a maid, especially when standing beside someone of his social standing. However, the moment he asked her about her memories of Rosedale and Netherwell, she would speak freely, her voice growing warm and animated.

She claimed she had given up. Yet she had never truly abandoned her longing to find her parents.

Others dismissed her as an insignificant maid who lacked everything. But Logan knew better. He had seen how observant she was and how quietly attentive and thoughtful she was in ways that most people failed to notice.

And yet… the maid Joshua described was nothing like the Bella Logan thought he knew.

Or perhaps he had never truly known her at all.

Bella, who so often belittled herself.

Then there was Amelia, who insisted that Bella was unfit to attend to him. Then there was the night she appeared before him with a swollen cheek, as though she had been hit.

Only now did the pieces he had refused to see begin to fall into place. At last, Logan began to grasp — if only faintly — the kind of treatment Bella must have endured at the Count’s estate. Realizing this left him shaken.

Had he known it would come to this, he would never have left. No matter how confused he had been, he should have kept her by his side.

He understood better than anyone that regret could not change the past. And yet, the thoughts would not stop.

What if he had arrived even a little later?

If her cold had worsened—

Even before he had come to terms with his feelings, the sight of her threw his heart into turmoil.

Without realizing it, he buried his face in his trembling hands. No matter how much time passed, whenever he thought he had forgotten, the memory of that day returned, tightening around his chest until it hurt to breathe.

His mother insisted that he had overcome his past trauma.

But Logan had never once believed that.

He had only ever pretended. He had pretended that he was fine. He had concealed everything so that no one would notice.

In that sense, Bella was the key that exposed his vulnerability — the one weakness that, despite his ability to deceive others so effortlessly, Logan could never bring himself to abandon.

Having insisted on caring for her himself, he removed the lukewarm cloth and replaced it with a damp one, carefully laying it across her forehead. His hands moved awkwardly and uncertainly — those of a man who had never truly learned how to care for someone else.

“Mm…”

At that moment, Bella, who had been sleeping lightly, stirred faintly. Her loose nightclothes, which were too big for her, slipped aside, exposing her bare shoulder.

Logan instinctively turned his gaze away. After a brief hesitation, he slowly reached out.

As he gently brushed the long strands of hair from her neck, he saw it: a scar stretching from the nape of her neck across her shoulder.

A burn.

The skin, once melted and ruined, had healed to form uneven, raised ridges. It looked as though the pain had been seared into her flesh, leaving behind a mark that time could never truly erase.

‘What kind of scar is this?’

Logan studied it closely. Although the wound had long since healed, the original injury’s severity was clear to see.

They had mentioned phantom pain. Could this be the cause?

In an instant, Logan understood. This scar was connected to the memory that Bella had lost.

‘A burn scar…’

He sifted through the fragments stored in his memory.

Bella had said that she was born and raised in Rosedale. If that were true, she should not have had any connection to the fire at the Fraser estate.

And yet, Logan could not look away.

There was a face bearing an uncanny resemblance to Isabella’s. The scarring was from burns that could only have come from a fire. She claimed that she could no longer remember her childhood.

Could all of this truly be dismissed as coincidence?

A small but persistent doubt began to take root within him, quietly tightening its grip on his thoughts.

***

Amelia paced the room, feeling agitated and restless.

The sudden drop in temperature had prompted the servants to light the stove, filling the room with the warmth of midsummer. Yet there was nothing warm about Amelia’s expression. Ever since she heard that the duke had carried the sick maid to his bedroom, she had been unable to sit still, pacing the room and gnawing her nails.

She had assumed that the maid’s illness would cause the duke to keep his distance.

Instead, he had shielded the maid as though she were precious.

Why?

Outside of business, he had always been cold, detached and indifferent. So why was he different only when it came to that maid?

Had he noticed something?

The question clung to her thoughts, refusing to let go.

“Mother, what should I do? Do you think the duke has found out?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That girl is dead.”

The Countess sat on the sofa and lifted her teacup, letting out a quiet sigh. The initial delight she had felt at the news of the Duke’s visit had quickly faded. Now, the constant reports of his every movement and the task of soothing Amelia’s frayed nerves had left her visibly exhausted.

“Then why is he protecting her like that? He has barely known her for two weeks, yet he insists on summoning the estate’s physician for a mere maid. Does that make any sense?”

The Countess’s attempt at reassurance did nothing to calm her. Her voice trembled with anxiety, and her slender hands were clasped so tightly that they had gone pale.

“I have to find out at once whether she’s told the duke anything.”

“The more you behave this way, the more you will invite his suspicion. Compose yourself. When your father returns, we will find out what really happened.”

“How can I calm down when my fiancé is with another woman? Do you have any idea how much I’ve—”

Amelia stamped her heel against the floor, raising her voice.

At that moment, the count, who had been in the duke’s bedchamber, returned.

“My dear! You’ve come at last. What happened?”

The Countess, who had been waiting anxiously for his return, hurried towards him. Looking tired, the Count brushed past her and collapsed onto the sofa.

“It doesn’t appear that the duke has noticed anything.”

He spoke as he yanked off his tie and tossed it aside.

“I knew it!”

Relief burst from the countess’s lips.

“However his attitude toward the maid was… unusual. He muttered something about being disappointed in the House of Everett over this matter.”

The Countess, who had just sighed with relief, turned to look at him.

The Count remembered how the Duke had dismissed everyone else and remained behind with only the maid. Whether he had been angered by the estate’s treatment of its servants or was solely concerned for the maid assigned to him, it was impossible to tell.

The Duke’s face had been utterly expressionless, offering no hint of his thoughts.

“I knew this would happen! That’s why I said we should have sent her somewhere far away—or gotten rid of her without a trace.”

Arms folded as she sat on the sofa, Amelia’s legs trembled restlessly, betraying her anxiety.

“Didn’t we send her to Netherwell? What if she regained her memories after being sent so far away? It’s better to keep her close by and under surveillance.”

“And what was the point of sending her to Grandmother? She still came back to the estate on the most important day, and now we’re in this mess.”

“This is partly your fault as well, Mel. If you had properly won the duke’s heart, he wouldn’t be looking at other women.”

The count spoke coldly, even to his own daughter.

“So this is all my fault? You’re blaming me because I couldn’t win the duke’s heart?”

“Why are you speaking to her like that? Do you have any idea what she went through to become engaged to the duke? She did everything she could.”

The Countess quickly stepped in to defend her daughter. Beneath the hand she placed on Amelia’s shoulder, a small burn scar was visible. For a noble lady, for whom unblemished skin was a reflection of honor, even a single scar was considered a fatal flaw.

The Count sat stiffly, his lips pressed thin, and let out a low groan.

“If we’re being honest, this happened because you failed to handle things properly back then! You started something you couldn’t fix, and now you’re asking what we did wrong?”

“You foolish woman! It was because of that incident that Amelia became engaged to the duke. If it hadn’t happened, the ducal house would never have given her even a passing glance. Do you understand?”

“So now you’re claiming the engagement is your achievement? You created a secret that could cost us our heads!”

“Quiet! Lower your voice!”

As their argument grew louder, the Count clamped a hand over his wife’s mouth. After glancing around warily to make sure they were alone, he lowered his voice and said,

“There’s only one solution. We must ensure that the duke can no longer take an interest in that maid. If we leave things as they are and she regains her memories, we’re finished.”

The three of them, who had been quarrelling only moments before, nodded in agreement.

It was a truth they had hidden for so many years.

If that secret were to come to light, they would be ruined.