On a night when the unusually large, blood-red moon rose, a night so cold it seemed to freeze the bones, Dalia awoke.

“Ugh, heh… heh-heh-heh…”

Gasping for breath as if she were going to collapse, Dalia jerked herself to her feet, clutching at her chest where the cruel sword had slashed just before she awoke. 

“Cough, cough… cough…” 

With her face buried in the unnervingly soft blanket, Dalia coughed up what could have been saliva, breath or blood before slowly lifting her head. 

Her face was ashen and lifeless, like that of a corpse, her eyes hollow and lifeless like those of a dead fish. The once vibrant cheeks and bright green eyes had long since lost their sparkle. 

She blinked. And then blinked again. 

After a few more blinks, Dalia slowly turned her eyes to take in her surroundings.

“Ah.”

The sound that escaped was a thin, sad voice, and Dalia jumped at the sound of her own.

When had she last spoken like this? 

She had lost her voice to poison months before her death, but she hadn’t been able to speak for even longer than that. Reflexively, she touched her throat and dropped her trembling arms, weak and lifeless. 

Staring blankly into the corner of the room, Dalia slowly raised her trembling hands to bury her face in them. 

“Heh, heh… heh… heh…” 

Soon a sob escaped her lips and white foam gathered at the corners of her mouth. But as the sobs continued, they slowly turned to laughter, and soon a bitter, mocking laugh echoed throughout the room, swirling around her like a gentle breeze.

“…Ha, haa.”

As the laughter faded, Dalia took a deep breath and stumbled over to the huge mirror in the corner of the room. 

This overly ornate and large mirror, placed in the Duke and Duchess’s bedroom, was one of the many gifts given to celebrate Dalia’s marriage to her husband, Curtis. 

As her hand touched the mirror’s smooth surface, a chill ran down her palm, but Dalia stared blankly at her own reflection, like a ghost in the harsh midday light. 

Dalia Gruy. The beloved daughter of a noble Count. The blessed Duchess. 

There was a time when she was called such things. 

But the last label she bore was… the woman murdered by her husband, the Duke. 

“I have returned… I’ve returned…” 

On the night of her regression, Dalia stood alone in the ‘couple’s’ bedroom, just as she had on the first night of their marriage and countless nights since, and nothing had changed.

***

The soft flutter of falling petals filled the air. Unlike the cold night she had experienced, Dalia sat on the balcony, bathed in the warmth of the spring sun, watching the petals dance around her. 

Her face was serene, her composure so perfect that no one would have guessed that she had come back from death only the day before.

And Dalia, the one who had regressed, accepted her situation with remarkable calm. 

There were no emotions left to wear her down, nothing left to crumble. She no longer felt the need to run away. 

Perhaps it was because her heart had hardened, no longer capable of being worn down by emotion or crumbling, that she no longer felt the need to escape.

“Madam, tomorrow’s schedule for the Duke.”

At the sound of the dry voice breaking the silence, Dalia, who had been absentmindedly tapping her teacup as she gazed out, stopped. 

The schedule of the Duke of the Empire, her husband, Curtis Fraser. 

It wasn’t unusual for the wife of a noble family to check her husband’s schedule. After all, as the head of the large “family” that ran the household – like a wild and delicate beast – she had to keep in step with the Duke. 

And, if we want to give a less grandiose reason, it could simply be that she enjoyed her husband’s private life by knowing his schedule in advance. 

This was usually the case. But for Dalia, the Duchess of Fraser, knowing Curtis’s schedule was something far more significant.

But for Dalia, the Duchess of Fraser, sharing Curtis’s schedule was something very special. She made it special herself. From head to toe, everything his hands touched, everything around him, was perfectly prepared just for Curtis.

The temperature of the tea he drank, the letter knife that ran through his fingers, the feel of the shirt that touched his body, even the handle of the carriage that brushed against his hand – Dalia never missed a detail.

She made sure that nothing disturbed him or made him unhappy. No other mistress of a noble family did that. No, they didn’t even think about it.

There was simply no reason to be so obsessive in what was, on the surface, a purely strategic marriage.

Of course, it was undoubtedly a strategic marriage for the Frasers too, but perhaps the difference was that Dalia adored Curtis.

When was it?

On a day long forgotten in the past, Dalia smiled brightly and explained.

“I want to take care of my husband.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean exactly that. Since he’s my husband, I want my hands to touch everything about him.”

She had said those words. It was probably a time when her love for Curtis overflowed and the whole world seemed bright and beautiful.

There was no one who could stop a woman from expressing such a bold ambition to devote herself to her husband.

After all, wasn’t it Dalia who had carried out her duties as Duchess flawlessly? From then until now, from the moment she awoke to the moment she fell asleep, Dalia had truly done her best for Curtis. It was a sacrificial love, so selfless that even the gods would be moved if they saw it.

The unsettling sound of the teacup, which Dalia had set down a little too roughly to hide the trembling of her fingers, accompanied her as she pushed the bitter taste of poison under her tongue. 

Well, that thousand-year-old love. It was long gone, scattered in the air.

Dalia no longer loved him. What kind of fool would love a man who had poisoned her for so long and then slit her chest open to kill her? 

But she didn’t immediately declare that she no longer cared about her husband’s schedule. For now, she had to hold her breath.

To survive in the hands of her husband, Duke Curtis Fraser, and to ensure a smooth divorce, she had to continue to be seen by others as a woman who loved him passionately.

A Duchess who, in the name of ‘love’, calmly continued to do these unreasonable things, such as controlling her husband’s every move, even the slightest glance.

Who would have thought that the Duchess was desperately pretending to escape from the Duke? Perhaps if the Duke had got tired of the Duchess and fled. And the husband had successfully fled. Or should we even say fled?

Since his sword had mercilessly split her chest, he was more of a pioneer than a fugitive. Instead of escaping through divorce, he forged a new path through widowhood. 

Even as she felt the phantom pain of being burned, Dalia nodded nonchalantly. 

“Yes. Bring it here.” 

After receiving the schedule, Dalia took her time to study it carefully, then her lips parted. 

“Prepare four sets of clothes. Five types of ties, and cuffs to go with the ties. Keep the food light and don’t serve fish. The whisky to be taken from the list is the 13th…”

When the stream of instructions ended, the maid bowed skilfully and withdrew, leaving Dalia to stare at her back, holding back the bitterness she hadn’t yet swallowed.

No one saw her dry smile, but Dalia scolded herself and gently touched her lips before forming her usual elegant smile. 

Leaving the cold tea untouched, she began to touch her chest without realising it, but her eyes were lost in the past and the future yet to come. 

Curtis Fraser.

The love she thought would only happen once in her life. 

But he didn’t love Dalia, he loved a woman called Irvelyn. The illegitimate child of the Count of Romand family. An unhappy woman, accepted neither by her father, who abused her, nor by her mother, who rejected her and tried to change her fate.

As a result, she was filled with sadness, wistfulness and an almost fading beauty, like a flower on the verge of withering, yet capable of manipulating the entire kingdom.

When Curtis met Irvelyn he fell in love with her, but Curtis was a man who was generally indifferent to others.

Curtis Fraser. A man with the dignity and ability to stand above others, with the arrogance and pride befitting his position – someone who was perfect and embodied the word ‘complete’.

A man who was born with everything and who, like many people of his stature, had no need to worry about others.

Everything was boring and indifferent to him, so he just mechanically performed the duties required by his noble lineage.

A man like that, uninterested in anything beyond what was required of him, found himself unexpectedly captivated by Irvelyn.