Her crimson hair, like it had captured the colors of the setting sun, shimmered even more vividly in the afternoon light streaming through the window.

Leaning against the headboard, the woman stared outside with hollow eyes. Even when she sensed someone’s presence at the door, she did not react.

“Rose.”

At the low, gentle voice, her head finally turned toward the sound.

Her brown eyes trembled faintly.

Still caught in the tangled storm of unfamiliar emotions, she did not think that the name he called could be her own.

The man watched her in silence for a moment, noting her lack of response.

“…Who are you?”

Rose’s dry, tightly pressed lips parted slightly.

The moment she saw him, a dull ache spread through her chest, her wariness and curiosity twisting together in confusion.

She lifted her gaze, quietly watching as the man stepped closer.

He was a man the word perfect seemed made for.

Jet-black hair that carried the chill of a northern winter. Silver-gray eyes that shimmered like a lake holding the faint glow of a dawn-lit galaxy.

Even his refined attire—so out of place here—made it unmistakably clear that he was no ordinary noble.

“You really don’t know who I am?”

As he reached out, Rose blinked rapidly, a flicker of unease crossing her face.

There was something strange in his expression as he gently brushed aside the strands of hair tickling her forehead and cheek.

Raphael studied every subtle shift in her expression with persistence—almost as if confirming, again and again, whether she had truly lost her memory.

“Do you know me?”

“……”

It was a question that slipped out naturally, drawn by his unexpectedly gentle touch.

But in that moment, Rose saw it—the blue flame flickering within his eyes.

It flared for only an instant.

A flash of something like joy—yet at the same time, something that sent a chill down her spine.

The hand that had been softly caressing her cheek moved to lightly grasp her small chin.

“Of course I do.”

A faint chuckle, the corner of his lips lifting at an angle.

The smile that spread across his face was radiant—almost like a divine blessing—yet carried an unsettling chill.

“Rose DeWitt Hamilton.”

He murmured her name in a low, even tone, devoid of emotion.

Confusion flickered across Rose’s face as she reached out, clutching at the collar of his clothing that held her in place.

“P-Please… your hand…”

“Even if you’ve lost your memory, you shouldn’t forget your master.”

Before Rose could fully understand what he was saying, he grabbed the back of her neck and leaned in, stopping just short of her lips.

“If this, too, is an act to deceive me… then that’s another matter.”

“……!”

Rose shook her head, struggling to break free from his grip.

The movement sent pain rippling through her body, still far from healed, the ache intensifying with every attempt.

“I love you, Rose.”

Suddenly, the man pulled her into a crushing embrace, as if he might break her, drawing in a deep breath.

His fingers tangled into her thick hair, gripping tightly at the back of her head. His touch—sharp and unyielding, like a snare tightening around her—closed in on her nape, stealing the air from her lungs.

Her heart pounded painfully against her chest.

She couldn’t understand him.

She couldn’t push him away.

She couldn’t escape.

All she could do was hope—desperately—that he would stop.

“I won’t lose you again.”

A low whisper slipped through his teeth as he breathed in her scent.

Rose’s body went rigid.

He spoke of love without hesitation—but whether it was truly a confession or a warning, she could not tell.

Only one thing was certain.

“You can have another child.”

He knew.

He knew every bit of the pain that tore through the hollow emptiness inside her.

***

The carriage jolted violently, and Rose’s body swayed with it.

Her brown eyes shifted cautiously, studying the man seated across from her.

“It’s our home in Blancheau.”

At his answer, Rose looked momentarily flustered. Then, recalling that the two of them were lovers, she slowly began to grasp what he meant.

“Then… does that make me the Duchess?”

Remembering how Vincent had addressed him as Duke, she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

They were lovers—but Rose did not even know what her own status was.

Raphael was gentle, yet in some ways, he felt distant. Perhaps, she thought, it was because so much had been left unsaid beneath the word ‘lovers.’

He did not answer immediately.

It was only a brief silence, yet to Rose, it stretched uncomfortably long.

When she heard a faint sigh from across her, unease struck her—had she said something wrong?

“Not exactly. But the fact that you share my bed won’t change.”

At Raphael’s ambiguous reply, Rose instinctively lowered her gaze.

A faint trace of disappointment flickered in her soft brown eyes.

In that moment, the uneasy suspicion she had felt—the clear difference in their status—settled into certainty.

“That I love you… that won’t change either.”

At his added words, Rose lifted her head.

She could not read a single thought from his silver-gray eyes as they met hers—yet something about them held her, as though under a quiet spell.

“Was that answer sufficient?”

The faint smile that touched his lips felt almost unreal—like gazing upon a living masterpiece. The shock of it scattered the countless questions filling her mind, dissolving them like smoke.

Pressing her lips together, Rose turned away, avoiding his gaze as she looked out the window.

Noticing the faint flush rising to her cheeks, Raphael leaned an arm against the carriage frame, watching her with quiet interest.

The carriage carrying them continued steadily along the newly laid road.

Rose found herself wondering what kind of place he had called our home.

Yet no matter how she tried, she could not clearly picture the duke’s estate.

For a fleeting moment, she worried that losing her memory had affected her mind as well—but according to Vincent, there was no serious issue.

‘Sharing a bed…’

Strangely, while imagining the duke’s residence proved difficult, picturing the two of them lying side by side on white sheets came far too easily.

Startled by the vivid image of the two of them, so unreserved in their closeness, Rose quickly composed her expression.

Fortunately, Raphael had already returned his attention to the book in his hands, seemingly unaware.