Though Dalia loved Curtis, she could never bring herself to confess her feelings – in spite of everyone else but him, knowing it was a love destined to remain unfulfilled. 

A love that was sure to be rejected. 

And even though she knew it would end in rejection, she couldn’t bear the thought of hearing those words from his lips. She knew she couldn’t bear it. 

Even as she suffered from a love that could never be hers, she chose to be content with simply remaining by his side as his wife. 

Through it all, her only desire was to be with him forever. 

As long as she was by his side, that would be enough. 

Or it should have been. 

Until that heartless man met Irvelyn and was consumed by the flames of love. 

Dalia had never known – never imagined – that Curtis could experience love at first sight, just as she had. 

And the price of her ignorance was unbearably cruel. 

Curtis wanted Irvelyn to sit where Dalia had once sat. 

In the Duchess’s seat – the position Dalia had sworn to keep, swallowing her wretched unrequited love for the rest of her life. 

Divorce was possible under Imperial law, but it was an excruciatingly long process. 

Such was the nature of marriages between noble houses, and the Temple did not look favourably upon divorce.

And so, without hesitation, Curtis chose the quickest way to get rid of his wife. 

The kind of separation that occurs when a spouse ceases to exist. 

“Now the seat is empty.” 

It was his voice – the voice of the man who had lowered the sword that had split her chest. 

As the sound of his deep, low voice rang in her ears, Dalia instinctively drew in her breath. 

Yes. 

In the end, he had killed her and emptied the seat beside him. 

At the very last moment, as she collapsed, the last thing Dalia saw was the terrified face of Irvelyn, standing next to Curtis. 

At that moment, Irvelyn’s face had been filled with fear. 

But Dalia knew.

Beneath that thin layer of terror was something else – excitement.

‘So it wasn’t unrequited love for you. Well, of course, this man would never experience unrequited love.’

With a faint sneer, her words drifted into the air, unheard by anyone. 

There was no need to be hurt by this revelation now. 

So Dalia just looked up at the bright, cloudless sky and let out a long sigh. 

There was no regret or lingering attachment to her past love. 

Just as fire consumes everything until only ashes remain, the once great love that had made her heart race had long since vanished, scattered like dust in the wind. 

Perhaps this end had been foretold from the beginning. 

The end of Dalia Gruy and Curtis Fraser’s marriage. 

An empty coffin after the funeral and a chest full of gifts to celebrate their union – that was the weight of their feelings for each other. 

A man who had nothing in him, and a woman who had too much love, overflowing with no place to put it.

But the empty one never wanted to be filled, and the one with too much never dared to give for fear of rejection.

The love that had flowed endlessly was finally discarded, leaving nothing behind.

And instead of becoming a wandering spirit bound to the past, the woman returned to the past.

Why had she returned?

How had she returned?

Come to think of it, the concept of regression – of returning to the past – was not entirely unfamiliar.

Tap. Then another tap.

When her neatly manicured fingernail, which had been idly tapping the handle of the teacup, finally came to a stop, Dalia barely managed to remember – that she was a Gruy.

Yes.

One night, long ago in her childhood, she had learned the secret history of her family.

“Dalia. Don’t be afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of returning to the past.”

“But the past can’t be revisited.”

“You really are your grandfather’s granddaughter – so clever.”

“Oh, come on, Grandma. You’ll mess up my hair.”

“It’s true that the past cannot be revisited. But a Gruy can.”

“Grandmother? I can’t hear you clearly.”

The faint whisper, tinged with laughter, had undoubtedly belonged to her grandmother. 

Though the former Countess Gruy had not spent many nights at Dalia’s side, even the briefest encounters with her had left an unforgettable presence. 

And so that childhood memory had remained tucked away in a corner of Dalia’s mind, never to fade. 

“I have to go home and check.” 

Even if she could no longer hear the answers from her late grandmother, her father, the current Count Gruy, would surely know something. 

Organising her thoughts, Dalia drew out one last lingering memory, one that, like soot, had left a stubborn stain in the corner of her mind – just as her childhood memories had done. 

“In the end, it was always going to end like this. How stupid”.

The dry remark, directed at her past self before her regression, lingered for a moment before disappearing into the emptiness of her empty teacup.

***

Curtis Fraser’s daily schedule was planned to the last minute, to say the least. 

The Duke of Fraser – head of one of the three most prestigious noble families in the Empire, second only to the line of the Count of Gruy. 

Of all the dukes in the long history of the Fraser family, his political acumen stood out. 

His wealth was so immense that rumours of his ability to see the future were half-accepted as fact. 

Although he denied any interest in art and culture, his discerning eye was so widely recognised that opera houses, painters, poets and novelists alike clung to him desperately, begging him to grant them a single glance at their work. 

He had not the slightest interest in others, but others were completely captivated by him.

“The most aristocratic noble in the empire’s history, with cold blue blood running through his veins.”

And the first to praise him with such words was none other than the Emperor himself.

Who would dare deny it? 

Ironically, because Curtis occupied such an untouchable position, his political marriage had been arranged quickly and without controversy. 

After all, it was he who had personally chosen his future wife. 

“It’s about time you got married, isn’t it?” 

With a single remark from the Emperor and Curtis’s silent agreement, the Fraser ducal estate was soon flooded with introductions and gifts from prospective brides – not only from the Empire, but even from foreign royal families. 

But it didn’t take long. 

With the same detached, glassy-eyed indifference with which he might choose a watch for the day, Curtis picked a single name from the list.

“Send a marriage proposal to the Gruy count’s family.”

Dalia Gruy.

The beloved daughter of the Count of Gruy. 

A woman of gentle nature, keen intellect, graceful demeanour and refined education – one of the most distinguished ladies of her time. 

Who on the continent could have refused Curtis’s proposal? 

Without fault or excess, Dalia’s marriage to him was inevitable. And so, a few months later, she naturally became the Duchess of Fraser. 

The ducal estate welcomed a new mistress, but little really changed. 

Curtis was no different. 

Before and after his marriage, his life remained as quiet as a still lake. 

And today was no exception. 

As the time to wake approached –

“Until death do us part… I swear to spend my life with you.”

Just before he awoke, a faint, trembling voice rested like a feather in his ears, accompanied by a blurred smile hidden behind a veil.

His chest stirred.

“…Ha.”

But as always, he woke at exactly the same time, without fail.

However, Curtis soon frowned slightly.

He tried to remember what he had seen and heard in the dream, but it had passed in an instant – so fleeting that the memory faded like sand through his fingers.

Unconsciously, he ran his fingers down his chest, over the solid muscle beneath which his heart still pounded with an unfamiliar sensation.

It was a kind of warning.

An instinctive signal – a danger sign sent by his highly developed, almost unnatural intuition, what some might call a sixth sense.

But having never experienced real danger in his life, Curtis failed to see it for what it was.

And so he came to a simple conclusion.

If he couldn’t remember it, it must not be important.

As he had done all his life, Curtis came to the most rational conclusion. He shook his head once to rid himself of any lingering traces of the dream and began his day as usual.

Instead of waking up in the marital bedroom within the ducal estate, he rose in his own rooms. After tidying up his appearance, he had a simple breakfast before heading off to the palace or wherever else his schedule dictated.

Having finished his tea, which had been prepared perfectly to his liking, he folded the newspaper and stood up.

“Where is the Duchess?”

Once a day he asked that question – not out of genuine concern, but simply as part of his duty as a husband.

And the answer was always the same.

The usual reply was that she was waiting to see him off.

But today the butler’s answer was a little different.

“The Duchess is unwell and will not be able to see you off today.”

“I see.”

Even after being told that his wife was ill, Curtis neither considered visiting her nor bothered to ask what was wrong or how serious it was.

With a brief, unemotional acknowledgement, he simply put the thought of Dalia’s existence out of his mind.

And as always, Curtis stepped out of the manor dressed in the clothes Dalia had meticulously prepared for him – perfectly suited to his taste and tailored to his form.