“You’re late. I said before dinner.”

It was well past the hour when the estate’s lights had been extinguished.

Logan stood at the doorway, a lantern in hand, receiving those who had come to him.

“My apologies. She’s only ever gone in and out of the laundry room and has never attended someone of Your Grace’s standing, so it took some time to instruct her—”

“I don’t recall speaking to you.”

Logan interrupted the head maid in the middle of her sentence, offering her a faint smile as he did so.

Leaning against the doorframe, he wore the polished expression of a perfect gentleman. Yet his tone was cold — courteous, but devoid of warmth. It was a quiet warning to the head maid, who had dared to make excuses in front of a nobleman.

At the subtle barb in his voice, she lowered her head at once.

This was precisely why serving the duke was such a challenge. To the outside world, he seemed to embody refinement and grace. But behind that composed exterior, his thoughts were impossible to read. Maids assigned to him were often dismissed without ever knowing what fault they had committed.

“I apologize, Your Grace. I am lacking in many ways, so I asked the head maid for instruction. That is why I failed to arrive at the time you specified.”

Under the head maid’s insistent gaze, the woman stepped forward, reluctant but quiet.

She had only just been informed by the young lady that she was to be reassigned. However, she could not afford to give the duke any reason to be displeased with her.

Logan’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her. Every word she spoke was steady and careful; not a syllable wavered.

Without warning, she was flooded with memories of the day they had first met, and her legs began to tremble.

What if he sends me back?

The young lady’s warning echoed within her: “Never displease His Grace.”

“Leave.”

Logan’s voice was low and cold.

The woman squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to retreat—but his gaze was not on her.

“…Have a pleasant night, Your Grace.”

Understanding the unmistakable message in his eyes, the head maid stepped back, stopping short of crossing the threshold.

The woman, who had hoped not to be left alone with him, stood in the awkward silence, scarcely daring to breathe. Her clasped hands grew slick with tension.

“Do you intend to stand outside all night?”

A voice fell from above her.

She lifted her head.

The duke had stepped aside and was waiting for her to enter.

“Ah—my apologies.”

Realizing that she had kept a nobleman waiting, she hurried forward, feeling flustered.

The moment she stepped into the room, Logan moved to stand directly in front of her, blocking the only exit.

His blue eyes travelled slowly and deliberately over her.

The woman he had searched for in vain, unable to catch even a glimpse of her, had now entered his private space with just one sentence.

Too easily.

One of her cheeks was flushed red, as though she had been struck.

“What happened here?”

He seized her cheek in his hand.

“When I saw you earlier today, you looked perfectly fine. Does the head maid’s ‘instruction’ include slaps as well?”

“No. I was carrying laundry and… failed to watch where I was going. I ran into a wall.”

A laugh escaped him.

What a flimsy excuse.

Her composure as she delivered such an obvious lie without even blinking twisted his lips.

“Is there a wall in this estate shaped like a palm?”

At his mocking tone, her hand rose instinctively to touch her cheek—then stilled.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the imprint still remained. But of course it could not.

She lowered her hand.

“Of course not. It must be the darkness of the chamber that misled you.”

“I don’t think so. I saw quite clearly.”

“It seems that Your Grace may have—”

“That my eyes are mistaken?”

A sharp question cut her off.

She lifted her head.

It seemed the duke had misunderstood her.

In that instant, their gazes met. She realized that his blue eyes had been fixed on her for a while.

Deep. Mysterious. They seemed as though they might draw her in.

The gaze felt familiar.

“If it wasn’t the head maid, then it must have been Amelia.”

“It was not. Whatever the truth may be, if Your Grace believes that I was struck, then let it be so.”

She had been staring at him without realizing it.

Suddenly, she came to her senses and lowered her gaze.

Steadying her trembling voice, she pressed a hand to her chest.

Thud. Thud.

Simply meeting his gaze had made her heart race.

“I told you to come before dinner, and now you arrive so late there’s little left for you to do.”

He picked up the glass from the dresser, then sat down on the sofa. The whisky he had been drinking while waiting for her was already half gone.

His languid gaze returned to her.

The initial shock he had felt when he first saw her had disappeared.

‘She won’t meet my eyes.’

She clasped her hands together tightly and bowed her head.

Logan studied her in silence.

She carried herself in a way that felt more unfamiliar than the faded image he had of her from his past.

Her submissive and compliant posture, as though she had already surrendered everything, made it clear that she was not the same girl.

The girl in his memory had been sharp, bright, and stubbornly unyielding.

“Did something happen at the banquet again today? You seem down.”

“I lost an arm-wrestling match to Fred. He said that I’m nothing more than a pretty face and a weakling.”

“It was unfair from the beginning. Sir Fred is two years older than you, Young Master!”

“Even so, we’re in the same year. We’ll be entering boarding school together.”

“That’s only because you finished your home studies two years early. If he can’t compete with you academically and chooses to rely on strength instead, that’s hardly fair.”

A short, hollow laugh slipped from Logan’s lips.

He found himself thinking of someone who would never come back.

It was pathetic that he was still unable to shake off his lingering attachment and was searching for traces of the long-dead in the living woman standing before him.

He put down his glass and ran a dry hand over his face.

“So your name is… Ah, you said you didn’t have one.”

The question had slipped out unconsciously. It was the first thing he habitually asked in business.

“Yes. ‘You there,’ ‘that one,’ ‘hey.’ You may call me whatever is convenient. That is how the people in the estate address me.”

He thought she had just made an excuse to get away from him quickly.

But it was true.

She really didn’t have a name.

Even among the servants, she didn’t have a nickname.

Perhaps because she had lived that way for so long, she spoke about it without emotion.

Logan could not understand it.

“That is what they call you?”

A faint crease formed between his brows.

“Doesn’t it trouble you?”

“I am seldom called for by name, so it does not.”

She answered him calmly.

Yet his expression did not soften.

“From the day I entered the estate, I have lived without a name.”

Throughout the many years during which she had grown from a girl into a woman, no one had ever addressed her by one.

It was one thing for masters to pay wages and feel no need to know their servants beyond that. But for even those who worked alongside her to not give her a name…

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“May I give you one?”

Ordinarily, it would not have been his concern.

Yet, for reasons he could not quite explain, Logan asked.

“Even if it is only for a few days, I will need to call for you while I remain at the count’s estate. I cannot continue saying ‘you there’ or ‘that one.’”

At his suggestion, her eyes widened slightly as she looked at him.

She rolled her gaze upward in thought—hesitating.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

At that small motion, Logan drew in a quiet breath.

Whether it was the whiskey or something else entirely, a warmth spread through him.

A name…

“Isabella. My name is Isabella. I have no surname, as I am a commoner.”

He thought of the brown-haired girl who used to follow him around with bright, attentive eyes. He remembered how she would look up whenever she was deep in thought.

The small habits overlapped.

And with them, memories he had long buried began to rise, one by one, to the surface.

“…Bella.”

His low, steady voice settled into the stillness of the room.