Amezella narrowed her eyes as she watched Raphael, who continued his meal in silence across from her.

Before long, she set down her cutlery with quiet precision, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and lifted her wine glass for a sip.

Raphael noticed that his mother had something to say—but chose not to respond.

He had no patience for tedious, bothersome conversations.

“Raphael.”

He understood that Rose must have felt neglected, given how rarely he had been able to return to the estate while buried under relentless work.

Her subtle attempts to push him away, the distrust in her eyes—those alone were enough to ignite the desire he had been barely holding back.

And yet—after everything it had taken to find her again.

His starved greed had already devoured her countless times over, but he restrained himself with immense effort, refusing to let go of his reason.

He needed time.

“…Raphael?”

He could not rid himself of the desire to claim her completely—to dominate and keep her by his side.

The more impatient he grew, the more he threw himself into his work, almost obsessively. If he did not keep himself occupied, he felt he might go straight to Rose’s bedroom at once.

“Raphael!”

When her repeated calls went unanswered, Amezella’s patience snapped. Forgetting her composure, she set her wine glass down with a sharp sound.

“Raphael!”

At last, pulled from his thoughts, Raphael responded indifferently.

“Yes.”

“What on earth has you so lost in thought? Can’t you even spare a moment to consider your own mother’s feelings after all this time?”

“If that were the case, I wouldn’t have postponed my work just to sit here idly cutting meat.”

“Raphael.”

“If you have something to say, then say it. I know you didn’t come all this way without a reason. You wouldn’t travel ten days from that warm southern Melgen to Blancheau otherwise.”

“……”

Amezella, unable to respond, merely tightened her fingers around the wine glass. Casting her a brief glance, Raphael added,

“Just leave out any talk of marriage.”

Amezella let out a disbelieving laugh. Unmoved, Raphael chewed his cut piece of meat with a detached expression.

“Raphael, I truly cannot understand you. You know as well as I do that Joshua is wholly unfit to sit on the imperial throne.”

It was clear the conversation was about to turn tedious.

As if losing his appetite, Raphael set down his cutlery, leaned back deeply into his chair, and lifted his wine glass.

Unbothered by his insolent attitude, Amezella continued,

“Lady Ambershire would make an exceptional bride—flawless in every regard. And as a founding house of the empire, her family wields immense influence. That much is well known.”

Raphael slowly swirled the wine in his glass, giving a faint nod.

At his reaction, Amezella’s face flushed, and she abruptly leaned forward.

“If you form an alliance with the Ambershire family, the reformists’ claim that you are worthy of the throne will gain even greater strength.”

“Mother.”

“Do not dismiss this as something you have no interest in. Even if you refuse, what difference would it make? His Majesty has already decided to pass the right of succession not to Joshua, but to you.”

The current emperor, Hermann, was Amezella’s younger brother, born three years after her.

Though they had never been particularly close, a shift in the imperial power structure had occurred when Amezella and the now-deceased empress gave birth around the same time.

Joshua, the first in line for the throne, was Hermann’s only son—yet he was notoriously dissolute and politically extreme.

Hermann feared that if Joshua were to ascend the throne, Rotten would be thrown into turmoil.

Despite strong opposition from the ministers, attempts to pass the succession to Raphael continued, leaving both the imperial court and the noble factions locked in a tense standoff.

The reformists openly supported Raphael’s ascension, while the conservatives fiercely opposed it, arguing it defied all precedent.

Some even went so far as to spread rumors that the Duke of Frederick was plotting rebellion, further fueling political unrest.

And yet, Raphael himself had not voiced a single opinion on the matter.

Even so, the newspapers had already begun stirring conflict, predicting a fierce power struggle between him and Joshua.

Their extreme sensitivity to the issue was understandable.

Hermann’s health was failing, and he wished to resolve the matter of succession before his condition worsened.

“I will arrange a meeting soon, so be prepared.”

Before Raphael could respond, Amezella rose abruptly, her skirts sweeping behind her as she strode out of the dining hall.

Raphael had no intention of becoming a pawn in the struggle for the throne.

The disgraceful titles he had deliberately taken upon himself—Rotten’s prodigal, a libertine—had all been for that very reason.

If he were to claim something, it would be by his own will.

But to be used by others like a piece on a chessboard—that, he would never allow.

Staring absentmindedly at the seat his mother had just vacated, Raphael let out a weary sigh.

Amezella was not someone who easily withdrew a decision once she had made it. She had lived her entire life on her own terms—selfish and unyielding.

How else could she have abandoned her young son, claiming that childbirth had ruined her figure, or that the sound of a baby’s cries would drive her mad?

Raphael had spent his childhood in the imperial palace.

Raised under the care of a capable nurse, he grew up learning alongside his cousin Joshua, who had been born around the same time.

As his thoughts drifted, a familiar face surfaced in his mind—and with it, his mood sank into the mire.

Tilting back his glass, Raphael drained the wine in one swallow. Then, suddenly, he pressed a hand to his right ear, suppressing the groan that nearly escaped his lips.

A sharp ringing—

It reverberated through his mind, violently shaking his thoughts before slowly fading away.

The symptoms were returning.

Lately, both their frequency and intensity had been worsening—an unsettling sign.

‘D*mn it.’

After a moment, he opened his tightly shut eyes, and his blurred vision gradually cleared.

***

“Is the food not to your liking?”

Rose’s hand, which had been mashing buttered roasted potatoes with her fork, froze mid-motion.

The food was excellent—both in taste and quality. Even the wine and champagne served alongside it were remarkable.

Of course, considering that everything she had tasted since losing her memory had been of this kind, perhaps that was only natural.

Shaking her head, Rose scraped up the mashed potatoes and took a bite.

Vincent had repeatedly emphasized that if her body, weakened from prolonged malnutrition, was to recover quickly, she needed to eat well above all else.

Of course, she did not fully trust his words.

Before the accident, she had not been alone—she had been carrying a child.

The idea that she had suffered from malnutrition in such a state was something she simply could not accept.

Lost in thought as she cut into the lamb steak, Rose suddenly lifted her head, sensing a gaze upon her.

“If you force yourself to eat, you might upset your stomach. Don’t push yourself.”

“……”

She had been hungry.

She was sure of it, just moments ago.

And yet, the instant the meal had been brought into her room, her appetite vanished as if it had been a lie.

Or perhaps—it was simply because her thoughts had grown far too heavy.

Rose’s grip loosened, and the cutlery slipped from her hand with a soft clatter.

“I’m afraid… of getting used to this kind of life.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Louisa was a trustworthy maid—that much had become clear over time.

Perhaps because of that, Rose found herself speaking her feelings without restraint. If she didn’t, it felt as though those thoughts would slowly consume her from within.

“It was your choice, Miss Hamilton. To remain by Master’s side.”

“…What kind of person was I?”

“You were fortunate. With that exceptional beauty, you captured Master’s attention in an instant.”

Louisa was one of the few who knew of Rose’s past—the part she herself could no longer remember.

Meeting Rose’s searching gaze, Louisa continued,

“You were the target of all the maids’ envy and jealousy. It went so far that some even began to torment you.”

Rose had been a low-ranking maid, tasked with menial work in the ducal estate.

And according to Louisa, she had not been ordinary.

She had faced the open hostility of the other maids without even flinching.

“You entered Master’s bedroom of your own accord. No one ordered you to.”

“……”

“All the servants were waiting for you to be thrown over the estate walls the next morning in a pitiful state.”

Louisa looked down at Rose, who could not hide her unease.

“But the outcome was different.”

Her gaze remained steady.

“It was the same as now. Nothing has changed at all.”

“So… I was satisfied with this kind of life.”

“Most likely.”

It was an honest answer.

A faint, bitter smile spread across Rose’s lips.

To think that this had all been her own choice—there was no one she could blame. And yet, the person she had become now felt unbearably pitiful.

Perhaps, in Louisa’s eyes, she looked like nothing more than someone complaining despite having more than enough.

“What is it that frightens you so much?”

Louisa asked.

Caught off guard, Rose’s brows lifted slightly.

Louisa’s expression, as always, remained calm and unreadable as she waited for her answer.

Despite her youthful appearance, she was remarkably rational—blunt to a fault.

“Is it because you doubt Master’s love?”

Rose’s shoulders trembled, as if struck at the heart of it.

But Louisa simply shrugged, as though it were nothing of importance, and refilled the empty glass with water.

“Then why not test it?”

“…What?”

“If even this level of favor isn’t enough to quiet your doubts, then the only way is to confirm it yourself.”

As Rose looked at her, silently asking what she meant, Louisa set the teapot down without a sound and smiled faintly.