Amelia’s face went blank at the unexpected question.

“The rear garden? Oh… if you walk down the corridor to the left, there’s a staircase. You can go down from there. If it’s for smoking, you may use the terrace instead. Father and my brother often smoke there as well.”

“I prefer to avoid smoking indoors.”

“Then I’ll come with—!”

“I’d rather not come all this way only to be scolded by Vincent Everett.”

A gentle tone, yet beneath it, his blue eyes—veiled beneath faintly smiling lids—revealed nothing of his true thoughts.

“You must be tired as well, my lady. It would be best if you returned to rest.”

His voice was polite — almost gentle. Yet beneath that courtesy lay an unmistakable sense of pressure: Do not interfere any further.

Amelia pressed her lips together, biting down until the pink lipstick darkened.

She did not expect him to love her.

But could he not offer her even the slightest hint of warmth?

He had to know that she had been left scarred after saving him. And yet he kept her at a careful, deliberate distance.

It was not his coldness that hurt her most.

It was the distance.

“Very… well. I’m sorry for keeping you when you must be tired. I’ll see you at dinner.”

She dipped her head slightly and stepped back.

The excitement that had lifted her moments ago at her fiancé’s visit vanished just as quickly. With her head lowered, her face burned with humiliation.

‘He hasn’t changed at all.’

There were two steps between them.

In front of other people, he would either link arms with her or hold her hand. But as soon as they were out of sight, he would instantly widen the space between them.

He was polite, but never intimate.

The boundary Logan had drawn years ago remained as firm as ever.

***

Logan loosened the tie around his throat as he stepped into the garden at the back of the estate. This was not enough. He undid two buttons on his shirt as well, letting the cool air soothe the heat rising within him.

He tapped the cigarette case he had taken from his inner pocket against his palm, then slipped a cigarette between his lips.

“To be in this state the moment I arrive.”

Though he appeared perfectly composed, he had felt uneasy ever since he stepped onto the Count’s estate.

The House of Fraser and the House of Everett.

What began as a friendship between their patriarchs during their university years gradually extended to their children. Logan and Vincent remained classmates throughout their time at university, and Amelia became Logan’s fiancée.

For a long time, it had seemed only natural that the closeness between their families would continue into the next generation.

However—

‘I told her not to attach meaning to an engagement that exists in name only.’

Although they had made a promise to each other in their childhood years, there had never been any real emotional connection between them. To him, the engagement was nothing more than compensation for the woman who had once saved his life — nothing more, nothing less. He had made that clear from the outset, even to Amelia, who longed for open affection.

However, as the years passed, Amelia began to desire more than the title of fiancée.

He accepted her invitation this time for one reason only: to make his intentions unmistakably clear.

What existed between them was a contract. Nothing more. She was not to expect love from him.

If she wanted, he was even prepared to end the engagement.

Logan slipped his hand into his pocket.

He checked the inner lining of his jacket, then his cigarette case, and finally his trouser pockets. But the familiar weight of the metal lighter was nowhere to be found.

His hand froze.

“D*mn it.”

Had he dropped it on the train?

Logan stood at a slight angle and frowned.

The bedroom he had been assigned to was near the entrance of the estate. The rear garden, where he had gone to smoke in private, was quite a distance away. Walking all the way back for the sake of a single lighter seemed like too much trouble. He lightly bit down on the tip of his cigarette, considering whether it was worth the effort.

As he stood there thinking, someone drifted into his line of sight: A maid.

She was waddling forward, her arms wrapped around a stack of bedding almost as big as her. The bundle looked heavy, yet she was carrying it alone, with no one to help her.

‘If she’s a maid, she might have matches.’

While many noble households had started using gas lamps, the old count’s estate still relied on candles.

Without hesitation, Logan approached her.

With her view obstructed by the bedding, she walked past without realizing he had come close until he took the bundle from her arms in one swift motion.

“I have a request.”

Startled by the sudden lightness in her arms, the woman glanced around in confusion.

Then her gaze lifted.

Her small head tilted upward slowly, gray-brown eyes meeting his face.

“Y-Your Grace… the Duke of Fraser?”

Recognition dawned. Her full lips parted as her startled voice trembled.

In that instant—

A sharp ringing filled his ears.

“I swear I’ll serve you for the rest of my life, Young Master. I promise. That’s enough, isn’t it? Now please—give me back my handkerchief!”

“Young Master, please wake up! You have to get up. The fire is spreading—quickly, before it spreads any further, you must get outside—!”

“Help me… please… s-save me… I can’t… breathe…”

The memories he had buried deep within himself returned in an overwhelming rush.

A sharp pain split his skull in two, causing the faint smile he had worn like a mask to disappear at once. Every nerve in his body was focused on the woman in front of him.

Logan stared at her.

Though years had passed, the image in his mind remained painfully clear: the young girl who had once stood in front of him. Bright. Cheerful. Completely lacking in tact for a mere maid. She was the girl who had boldly declared that she would become the nanny to his child when he grew up and got married.

“You…”

The word scraped out of his tightened throat, rough and strained — almost a groan.

As soon as the woman lowered her head and tried to slip away, as if to hide her face, Logan caught her wrist.

His grip was firm and unyielding.

He forced her to turn around and face him.

“You were… alive?”

You were alive? This close?

“Pardon? I don’t quite understand what you mean…”

“Look me straight in the eye.”

As the maid twisted, trying to pull her arm free, Logan only tightened his grip. His gaze was fixed so intensely on her grey-brown eyes that he failed to notice the pain twisting her features.

For a moment, he thought he was looking at a ghost, an illusion shaped by longing. The face of someone long dead.

She resembled that child so closely that, had she survived, she might look exactly like this now.

For years, he had questioned his own sanity, unable to forget the girl who had died because of him.

“My wrist… it hurts. Could you please… let go?”

The maid’s voice trailed off as he held her tightly, preventing blood from circulating properly.

Although the rear garden was secluded and rarely visited, even by servants, she glanced around anxiously, afraid that someone might see them. She twisted her wrist, trying to pull free.

“Ah—sorry.”

Only then did Logan realize that he had used excessive force. The look on her face made it clear that she wanted nothing more than to get away from him at once.

He released her.

She rubbed her wrist, holding it close to her chest, and took a step back.

“What’s your name?”

“M-My name? I don’t have one…”

“…You don’t have a name?”

“I have urgent work to finish. May I go?”

Instead of answering him, she asked for his permission.

She had been glancing around nervously ever since he approached her. Seeing no reason to detain her further, he did not block her path again.

At his silent acquiescence, she bowed and retreated quickly, as though afraid he might seize her once more.

Like a rabbit freed from a trap, she fled without looking back.

Watching her retreating figure, Logan ran a hand roughly through his hair.

“Shameless b*stard.”

He crushed the unlit cigarette that had fallen to the ground beneath his feet. Then, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, he turned towards his room.

Smoking wouldn’t make this feeling go away.

“A person who died more than ten years ago cannot possibly be alive.”

If she had been alive, she would have come back to him.

Logan pushed the memory of the woman who had left him with nothing but a pounding headache out of his mind.

In the rear garden where they had briefly met, only the soiled bedding remained, abandoned on the ground.