Upon concluding his stay in Rosedale, Logan returned to the capital, where he was immediately engulfed by work. He was faced with reports that had accumulated during his absence, followed by back-to-back meetings and ongoing negotiations that demanded his constant attention.

He slept little, managing to catch a few minutes of rest in the car as it ferried him between the estate and the hotel. Sustained by cup after cup of coffee, he forced himself through each day. His overworked body protested relentlessly.

But what drained him more than the exhaustion was the persistent thought that kept surfacing, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it: Bella.

The maid he had left behind in Rosedale.

“Shall we head to the hotel, sir?”

“To the estate.”

Logan had eaten at the hotel for the past few days. This time, however, he told the driver to take him to the estate instead. He had not returned for several days due to engagements keeping him away day after day.

Sitting in the slowly moving car, Logan closed his dry, aching eyes. Fatigue pressed heavily against him. His body, which had grown accustomed to a slower rhythm, needed time to readjust to this familiar yet unforgiving pace.

Just as he began to drift into a shallow, restless sleep, the car stopped outside the estate.

“So you’ve finally come. My only son arrives in the capital, and yet it’s this difficult to see his face.”

The voice that greeted him at the entrance carried a note of gentle reproach.

“Mother seems well enough without my asking. You’re still so beautiful, no one would believe you have a grown son.”

“You always speak so prettily.”

“I mean it as a greeting.”

Scarlett Fraser.

After the former Duke of Fraser died in a fire, she had to protect her family and her son alone from relatives who wanted to take advantage of her as a widow and claim the vacant headship of the house.

Even now, she commands a formidable presence in high society. She oversaw affairs within and beyond the estate, maintained delicate ties with the nobility, and managed all matters bearing the Fraser name — except for Logan’s business dealings.

“Come along. The head chef has been in the kitchen since midday, insisting on preparing your dinner himself.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing what he’s made. I’m also eager to see what kind of telling-off you have in store for me this time.”

Logan let out a light laugh as he teased her. Of course, he wasn’t speaking lightly. Knowing how fiercely she had lived for his sake, he made every effort to respect her opinions.

Scarlett cast him a sidelong glance before taking his arm and leading him towards the dining room. A long table occupied its center, already set with the chef’s ambitious creations.

“How was Rosedale? You didn’t go there only to work again, did you?”

Scarlett took a sip of her tea before dinner and asked.

“And Rosedale? How was it?”

“It wasn’t bad. I had planned to rest as you suggested, but there was a fire, so I ended up being busier than usual. At least Bellington was close to Rosedale, though, which helped.”

“And Amelia? Did you get on well with her? She must have grown quite a bit. I imagine she’s grown out of her childish ways and become a proper young lady.”

“Yes. She seems to resemble the Countess more with each passing day.”

“You should start growing fond of her. That child has liked you since she was little.”

In response to his mother’s ongoing comments, Logan merely nodded without answering. He wasn’t interested in Amelia’s feelings and wanted to end the conversation.

“Still, you’re alive because of that child. For that alone, I have always been grateful to Amelia.”

Scarlett held Amelia in the highest regard. On the night the flames consumed the estate and even grown adults were frozen with fear, Amelia ran back into the fire to save Logan.

She could have escaped unharmed if she had only thought of herself. But for Logan’s sake, the young girl returned to the smoke-choked corridors and emerged bearing scars that would never fade. Over time, her actions became a celebrated story in high society, a testament to her virtue.

Scarlett believed that, despite her youth, Amelia truly loved Logan. She thought that such unwavering devotion might one day steady a man who bore far more emotional scars than he ever let on.

Perhaps that was why she wished her son would show his fiancée more warmth.

“Once your work settles, you should set a wedding date. You and Amelia are not getting any younger. You cannot postpone marriage forever.”

“My business is still demanding.”

“There’s no benefit in prolonging an engagement.”

“I’ll marry when the time comes.”

Logan brushed aside Scarlett’s reproach, offering his standard excuse that he was busy. He had no intention of calling off his engagement to Amelia. He simply did not see the need to rush into marriage — not yet, at least.

His engagement to the Everett was advantageous for his family and his business. With Amelia as his fiancée, his dealings with the Everett and their allies were much easier. He was spared the tedious formality of entertaining countless eligible young ladies and wasting time on insincere courtship.

And yet, there was one question that had never left his mind.

Amelia’s guest room was nowhere near his father’s bedroom, where the fire had started. Furthermore, the manner in which the flames spread — racing up the staircase and swiftly engulfing the entire estate — did not align with her account of battling through dense smoke to reach his room and rescue him.

Then there was that fractured memory, splintered and blurred by chaos.

He remembered waking late to find his room already consumed by fire, his thoughts hazy and unsteady. He remembered someone supporting him.

He remembered the trembling grip of a small hand on his arm. He heard a desperate voice urging him to get up and move, warning that it was dangerous. The sound was distorted, as though he were hearing it from beneath the water.

Drawn by that frantic voice, Logan forced himself to breathe through the smoke and cling to his remaining consciousness. Every breath burned. Each step felt unbearable. And yet he moved, slowly and blindly, guided by the voice that refused to stop calling his name.

But the memory ended there.

It broke off, fragmented, with the most crucial piece missing. No matter how hard he tried, he could not remember what happened next.

When he finally regained consciousness, he was in his mother’s arms. Amelia, who was credited with saving him, claimed that he had collapsed alone in the corridor.

The neurologist who examined him later concluded that he had likely experienced hallucinations caused by smoke inhalation, shock, and a lack of oxygen.

But to Logan, that memory had never felt like a hallucination.

The missing fragment — the empty space carved from his recollection — continued to haunt him long after the fire.

What if the person who had saved him had been Isabella, not Amelia?

What if she had tried to rescue him and never made it back from the flames?

What would that mean for their engagement?

“…Are you still unable to forget that child?”

Scarlett, who had been watching her son in silence, finally spoke.

Logan did not answer at once. Scarlett knew his silence was answer enough.

“It pains me to say it, but Isabella died that day. You saw her belongings yourself. We couldn’t even recover her body—buried somewhere beneath the debris…”

Scarlett was not a mother who was blind to her son’s suffering.

After the fire, she witnessed the extent of his suffering first-hand: the long periods of silence and the nights when he cried out a girl’s name in his sleep. She could only stand by helplessly while her young son writhed in agony night after night. Having already lost so much, she could not bear the thought of losing the son who had survived the flames.

And so she made a decision.

No matter the cost, she would sever him from the girl who haunted him, even in death.

She erased every trace of the girl from the estate. She made sure that her name was never spoken. Nothing was beyond Scarlett’s reach; she even controlled those around Logan. She was determined that nothing would remind him of the girl, consciously or unconsciously.

Even if it meant being seen as a cruel mother by her only son.

“Yes. Isabella is dead.”

Though he knew the lengths his mother had gone to for him, Logan had never once forgotten Isabella.

No—he could not forget her.

“Because of me.”

His voice fell low.