Clodine rubbed her arm absently and looked at Ahazan.

With visible reluctance, she opened her mouth.

“You said I caused trouble last night. It wasn’t intentional… but I’ll apologize.”

At her words, Ahazan’s expression hardened.

He let out a faint sigh and began removing the long coat he was wearing. Then he walked straight to her and draped it over her shoulders.

“You don’t even know what was truly troublesome.”

Clodine hesitated before asking.

“What does that mean?”

As if he had expected that reaction, Ahazan gave a short, amused huff.

“I figured you wouldn’t remember.”

With that, he turned his back on her. Returning to where he had been standing, he resumed what he was doing, as though he had no intention of explaining further.

The sight of Ahazan in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a white shirt and rolling up his sleeves, felt strangely out of place, yet carried an unmistakable confidence.

Clodine stared at him in disbelief.

“What exactly are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Inspecting the ingredients handed to him by servants moving in and out of the kitchen.

“I’m going to uproot that remaining fever of yours.”

Apparently satisfied with the vegetables and spices, he drew a large knife and began dicing carrots with steady precision.

An emperor of the empire, personally cooking in a kitchen meant for servants, the scene made everyone around him visibly uneasy.

Merian, who had stepped close without Clodine noticing, looked at her uncertainly.

Clodine felt deeply uncomfortable.

Unaware—or perhaps entirely aware, of the tension in the room, Ahazan continued in an even tone.

“There’s nothing special in it, but this soup is genuinely effective against fever. The northern winters are brutal. When the harsh season came, soldiers often suffered from fever. They would cook this every time. Once, I experienced its effect myself.”

He placed a heavy wooden board on the counter and continued chopping. Then he lifted his gaze briefly and met Clodine’s eyes, a faint smile touching his lips.

“Did you know? On the battlefield, even an emperor needs to know how to cook, Clodine.”

She stared at him, clearly flustered.

It seemed pointless to stop him.

Instead, she turned toward the cluster of servants still lingering in the kitchen.

“If the ingredients are ready, you may all leave.”

At the empress’s command, the servants quietly withdrew.

Only after she and Ahazan were alone did Clodine step closer to him.

She hesitated, then spoke as if bracing herself.

“Why are you doing this? I don’t understand what you want from me. I truly want to know what you’re thinking.”

For perhaps the first time, she asked without accusation, without emotion, simply seeking an answer she could accept.

Since he had brought up marriage again, she had never once directly asked him why.

Why?

Why now?

Why place Clodine Lamiere on the imperial throne and attempt to mend what had long since shattered?

Through everything she had endured, Clodine had reached one conclusion:

Ahazan had never loved her.

Their engagement had been nothing more than a political arrangement, devoid of their own will. He had simply accepted that reality as he grew up.

What they had shared, what she had believed to be shared, had been a bond deeper than ordinary friendship.

But love?

That concrete, undeniable emotion—

It had lived only in her heart.

‘If he had loved me, he would never have sent me to O’Neil.’

No one sends the woman they love to marry another man.

That truth had always been the clearest measure of his feelings.

And yet now—

He wanted to marry her again.

He showed inexplicable kindness.

He behaved as though he wanted to restore their relationship.

For what purpose?

Why insist on a marriage to a woman who had once belonged to another man?

Why reveal even the shame of his own mother and bind it all to the word fate?

Why declare, so late in the day, that he would reclaim the ten years they had lost?

‘If I was ill, he could have simply left me alone. Why stay up all night nursing me…?’

Clodine felt the faint heat lingering across her face and slowly lowered her head.

No matter how she tried to suppress it, one memory resurfaced again.

‘Until you truly want me, I will not force anything.’

Several days had passed since the wedding and their arrival at the villa.

In this confined place where there was nothing else to occupy their time, three days felt longer than thirty in the bustling palace.

Yet Ahazan had not once touched her.

O’Neil had been different.

He had been an impatient man, incapable of restraint. Cruel. Ruthless. He had driven her to the edge time and time again. From the day she married him until she was declared infertile, her life had been a chain of humiliation and shame.

‘Then why are you different…?’

You do not love me either. So why?

She lifted her gaze and studied Ahazan’s face.

His expression was unreadable.

He stood in that unfamiliar kitchen, exhausted from a sleepless night, insisting on making soup for her.

Was this truly the same man who had once discarded her with nothing more than a single letter?

The confusion in her chest deepened.

Just as Clodine was being swept up in her tangled emotions, Ahazan spoke, his expression thoughtful.

“Do you need a reason to want someone not to be in pain?”

His calm voice, paired with a face devoid of humor, made the words sound painfully sincere.

Something surged in Clodine’s chest.

‘You’re the one who hurt me the most in my entire life.’

She could have thrown those words back at him instantly.

But she knew she would not survive that kind of conversation.

So she swallowed them.

“If you need a reason that badly, then think whatever you like.”

Ahazan looked at her steadily for a moment before lowering his gaze and returning to what he was doing.

Then, almost to himself, he murmured,

“For me, it’s something so obvious that even if I try to invent a reason, nothing comes to mind.”

There was no attempt to persuade her. No attempt to dress it up in pretty words. It was a plain, unadorned statement.

And somehow, that shook her more than anything else.

Ahazan resumed cooking, having stirred her heart more violently than ever before. He set aside the chopped ingredients and poured water into the heated pot.

Clodine stood there, unable to explain what she was feeling, watching him move as though she had lost her sense.

He handled the ingredients with the ease of someone accustomed to cooking, trimming and slicing with practiced precision. Yet in the small, quaint kitchen, his broad frame looked almost out of place. At times, he even had to subtly draw in his shoulders to maneuver through the narrow space.

The sight distracted her from her turmoil.

‘The kitchen’s too cramped… It looks dangerous.’

The thought had barely crossed her mind when a long ruler resting on the counter clattered to the floor. Ahazan immediately bent down to pick it up.

That was when it happened.

The hot pot, already slightly tilted, began to tip further toward the side where he had crouched.

Seeing it from the front, Clodine reacted without thinking.

She reached out and grabbed the blazing surface of the pot.

There was no time to search for the handle. Her body moved before her mind could.

With swift, precise motion, she righted the pot, then jerked her hand away.

Ahazan, rising with the ruler in hand, had no idea what had nearly occurred behind him.

Clodine quickly hid the fingers that had touched the pot inside the coat draped over her shoulders.

It had been only a brief contact, but the pot had been searing hot.

Her fingertips burned as though pressed to heated iron.

The pain was sharp, immediate, so intense that the fever she’d suffered the night before felt insignificant in comparison.

And at that very moment—

‘Do you need a reason to want someone not to be in pain?’

‘For me, it’s something obvious.’

His words from moments ago brushed past her ears.

How ridiculous.

He had said that not long ago, and now she had burned herself for him.

It felt embarrassing. Almost mortifying.

Yet when she imagined the pot continuing to tip, imagined it spilling onto him, her breath caught.

Instead of resentment, she felt relief.

Irritated that I burned myself, but glad it wasn’t him.

“Are you going to keep standing there?”

Unaware of anything that had happened, Ahazan gestured toward her while continuing to cook.

A small wooden table stood where he pointed. Morning sunlight streamed through the nearby window, bathing that corner in warm, golden light.

“Go sit. It’s almost done.”

Ordinarily, she would have refused.

But this time, she obeyed without protest.

Her fingertips burned so badly she could think of little else.

When she sat down and cautiously glanced at her hand, blisters were already forming.

A look of quiet dismay crossed her face.

Soon, Ahazan finished and approached the table. On the tray he carried were a bowl of soup and a small creamer with a lid.

He sat across from her and set the bowl down in front of her, handing her a spoon.

Clodine forced herself to appear indifferent as she accepted it, ignoring the pain in her hand. Thankfully, it was her left hand that had been burned. She was right-handed.

“Don’t expect it to taste good, it’s not that I cooked it poorly. It’s just that things that are good for you are usually bitter.”

It seemed he intended to watch her finish every last drop.

“What are you doing? Eat it. It’s best while it’s hot.”

Still distracted by the sting in her fingers, Clodine lifted her gaze to him.

He rested his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand.

Bathed in brilliant morning light, his eyes shone as they met hers.

The moment their gazes locked, he gave a faint smirk.

“What? Do you want me to feed you?”