“…”

Click.

The door shut behind her, immediately silencing the noise outside and leaving the room in a cold stillness.

Daphne stared blankly at the room in which she was now supposed to live — the room of the ‘princess’ that she would have to pretend to be.

She couldn’t remember who she was, and yet here she was: living as someone else and married to a stranger. The absurdity of her situation hit her all over again.

On the sofa from her wedding night sat a man of breathtaking beauty: Oswald Lawrence.

He was a national celebrity she had only ever encountered in newspaper headlines, a hero praised throughout the country.

And he was glaring at her with open contempt — her husband.

“How does it feel?”

His voice dripped with mockery. His hair was damp, as though he had just washed it, and he was wearing only a robe. There was no trace of the excitement one might have expected on a couple’s first night of marriage.

“A woman dragged here as a prisoner of a defeated nation, and yet here you are, sitting at the very top. If people knew, they’d have a good laugh.”

Hatred.

Every word falling from Oswald’s mouth was laced with unmistakable, burning hatred. He swirled the half-finished whiskey in his glass; the ice clinked sharply against the crystal.

“Today is the most humiliating day of my life.”

“…”

“…The day I most wish I could erase.”

His once-calm voice broke apart, each syllable bitten off as if the words themselves disgusted him.

“Sit.”

“…Why?”

He jerked his chin toward the seat across from him. His tone made it clear this was not a request.

“You should drink as well.”

It wasn’t a request, it was an order.

Reluctantly, Daphne lowered herself onto the sofa opposite him.

As she lifted her glass, he poured whisky into it, his expression blank and indifferent.

The sound of the liquid trickling into the glass filled the silent room.

“…That’s enough.”

The amber liquor had already reached the bottle’s brim and was beginning to spill over.

But Oswald ignored her completely, continuing to pour.

The whisky overflowed, running down her hand and arm and soaking into the table, but he didn’t spare it a glance. The surface was soon drenched.

“Stop…!”

Only then did Oswald finally put the bottle down.

Their eyes met, her gaze locking onto his icy blue eyes, which simmered with hatred.

Daphne held his stare for a moment, then placed her glass on the table.

She smoothed the damp edges of her dress and opened her mouth.

It was a question that had been on her mind for days.

“…Are you hiding something from me?”

“I’ve no idea what nonsense you’re talking about.”

“You left it on purpose, didn’t you?”

His expression shifted into something like confusion as he lifted his glass and wetted his lips. He looked genuinely clueless, but Daphne continued.

“That night you came. In the rain. You left it in my room—on purpose.”

“What are you talking about? Since earlier.”

Oswald’s tone held clear bewilderment. A chill crept up Daphne’s spine. Something was wrong.

When she didn’t respond, he asked again.

“What exactly did I leave?”

“…”

‘He wasn’t the one who left the revolver?’

Silence thickened between them. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth.

After a moment, his voice cut through the stillness—calm, but threaded with warning.

“…If you have something like that, then you’d better keep it well-hidden.”

Daphne stared at him again.

Oswald’s expression hadn’t changed at all—cold, bored, unaffected.

“The position of a country’s commander comes with plenty of restrictions,” he added with a dismissive sigh.

Seeing Daphne’s confused face, he continued as if irritated by her very existence.

“What are you standing there gaping for? Don’t tell me you actually intend to spend your wedding night with me.”

Daphne pushed herself up from the sofa.

His words weren’t worth answering.

Without looking back, she slipped into the bathroom.

The sharp smell of spilled alcohol clung to her skin and turned her stomach.

By the time she reached the doorway, she knew with chilling certainty that—Oswald was acting.

Even after the bathwater had long gone cold, she took her time returning to the bedchamber.

Nothing had changed.

The room was exactly as she had left it: dimly lit, silent and still.

Oswald was sitting in the same place, in the same posture, as before; it was as though time had stopped around him.

‘Was he asleep?’

Stepping quietly closer, Daphne looked down at him.

His platinum hair, usually combed back with military neatness, had fallen over his forehead.

His pale lashes, the same color as his hair, rested over his eyes like a soft, misty curtain.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.

She lowered herself onto the sofa opposite him.

The room was so quiet that she could hear every faint breath he took.

“Today is the most humiliating day of my life.”
“The day I most wish I could erase.”

Daphne stared at the man who was now—impossibly—her husband and found herself replaying his earlier words in her mind.

He despised her.

From the very beginning, he had been hostile; every word and gesture was laced with hidden malice.

Seeing him like this — quiet and unmoving — felt somehow wrong.

Through the parted opening of his robe, she caught sight of the faint line of his collarbone.

Startled, she hurried to lift her gaze—

—only to find herself staring straight into a pair of clear, vivid blue eyes.

At some point, he had woken up.

He hadn’t been asleep at all.

Daphne froze like a statue in the dim light.

She wanted to look away and break the spell of the moment, but she couldn’t.

Something held her there, locked in place and unable to move.

“Daphne.”

His voice was slow, slightly slurred.

He must have been drunk, he had consumed half the bottle.

Uneasy under his gaze, she abruptly stood.

“Sit.”

The command followed instantly, sharp and heavy.
She ignored it and stepped further away.

“It’s late.”

“…Sit.”

“Do you have something to say to me?”

Her voice was distant, and she wore a guarded expression.

Oswald let out a bitter, humorless laugh and stood up.

One step.

Then another.

Oswald closed the distance between them.

Despite having consumed so much alcohol, his stride never faltered.

As he drew nearer, his tall frame filled her entire field of vision.

When he finally stood right in front of her, Daphne looked up at him in bewilderment.

“What… are you doing?”

He couldn’t have been acting out of desire.

He couldn’t have been.

Not when you consider how deeply he despised her — he was not that kind of man.

A man who loathed a woman from the defeated nation would never desire her.

She was almost certain of that. And yet, the Oswald standing before her now looked as though he wanted something.

The blue of his eyes wasn’t entirely cold.

There was a strange heat beneath the haze.

His face lowered slowly and deliberately, as though he truly meant to kiss her.

The familiar scent of him, tinged with alcohol, brushed against her nose.

A jolt of panic shot through her, and she pushed him hard in the chest.

“What are you doing?!”

He fell back with the force, not resisting at all. As if forcing something on her had never been his intention in the first place. He simply stood there, staring at her.

“You mock me as a POW from a defeated nation, so why are you acting like this?”

“Don’t raise your voice.”

His warning was low, sharp. His robe had come undone, exposing part of his chest, but he seemed utterly unconcerned.

“Someone might hear us outside.”

“At this hour? There’s no one!”

When she shouted again, Oswald strode forward and clamped a large hand over her mouth.

“I said be quiet.

Do you want your identity exposed?”

Half her face pinned under his palm, Daphne glared up at him unable to tell whether he was drunk or disturbingly sober. There was a sadness in his eyes, faint but unmistakable.

“…Are you drunk?”

Her muffled question made him give a short, bitter laugh.

“Yes. I’m drunk.”

“…”

“Very drunk.”

Their gazes locked and a droplet of water formed in her damp hair. It fell and splashed softly onto his hand.

The droplet traced a slow path down his hand before disappearing into the carpet.

Still covering her mouth, he stared down at her. His lashes were lowered and heavy, as though burdened by emotions he couldn’t name or didn’t want to show.

Finally, he spoke.

“I really hate you.”

His hand slipped away from her lips.

Daphne’s eyes quivered.

She wanted to ask him why his hatred ran so deep, and why it felt like something sharper and more complicated than mere loathing. But she hadn’t been able to speak while his hand had been on her mouth.

Then something warm and soft brushed against her mouth.

This time, she didn’t resist.

He looked so sorrowful and wounded that she felt a tremor in her chest in response.

A cautious tongue traced the roof of her mouth.

The unfamiliar touch of his tongue against such a sensitive area made Daphne shudder.

That slight, instinctive flinch seemed to ignite something in him.

Oswald drew her closer, his arms tightening firmly around her waist.

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