The National Art Institute’s gallery was located near the Roman Department Store. Although the building itself was not particularly old, its Gothic design was meticulously crafted to exude quiet elegance and grandeur that held the viewer’s gaze effortlessly.

Rive couldn’t stop thinking about how Paul had been called away by the institute’s director early that morning, leaving a sudden void in her life. Nevertheless, she clung to his promise that he would return soon, and with that reassurance, she decided to explore the gallery alone.

The exhibition featured works from a wide range of artists. However, Rive, who cherished Hyacinth’s art above all else, headed straight for the section dedicated to his paintings, her heart beating with quiet anticipation.

The night before had been one of the happiest moments of her life. She had shared the joy of supplying the department store with Ainer, and she had heard Old Man Marsili’s warm, affectionate voice.

Now, thanks to Paul, she had the chance to stand before Hyacinth’s paintings again after such a long time.

‘Is it really alright for me to feel this happy?’

As one good thing followed another, a quiet, inexplicable unease began to creep into her heart.

Lowering the wide brim of her hat to her jaw, Rive tried to steady her increasingly labored breathing. Her heart was pounding so fiercely that each step felt unsteady, as though the ground beneath her feet might give way.

She had arrived just as the gallery opened. Glancing at the visitors wandering around and admiring the paintings, she seemed soft and restrained yet excited.

Her steps were light, the hem of her skirt swaying gently with each movement.

At last, she reached the exhibition room dedicated to Hyacinth.

Stepping quietly beneath the soft glow of the lights, she entered his artistic world.

“Hyacinth’s paintings are known for allowing multiple interpretations, as the artist deliberately refrains from offering expl*cit explanations.”

As if spellbound, Rive came to a halt, staring blankly at the painting that covered an entire wall.

“However, this particular piece is the only one that contains the artist’s personal narrative.”

The docent began a lengthy explanation for the gathered audience.

“Outside the window, a faint light softly illuminates the world. And here—you can see a man and a woman.”

The docent’s voice filled the quiet stillness of the room.

“The man holds a blood-stained dagger in his hand. The woman, who has been stabbed by that blade, lies on the ground as if she has lost her breath. However, if you look closely, you can see a faint smile on her lips. In contrast, the man who appears to have killed her is weeping, his face full of despair.”

“……”

“Arte and Cassio. They were a married couple and had been friends with Hyacinth for a long time. Cassio suffered from depression. A heavy drinker, he eventually experienced delirium as part of his alcohol withdrawal. He began to doubt his wife’s love. During his hallucinations, he came to believe that she was having an affair with Hyacinth.”

“……”

“Arte said to Cassios, who could no longer trust her, ‘K*ll me. If it will free you from your suffering, then that alone is enough for me.’ Cassios raised his dagger and, without hesitation, stabbed her through the heart. And as Arte’s breath slowly faded, she smiled and said—”

“……”

“Willingly, I Become Your Dawn.”

At that moment, the faint light breaking through the window seeped into Cassios’s fading eyes.
Half-mad until then, he finally realized the terrible mistake he had made—and tears of regret poured from him.

‘I have killed the woman I loved with my own hands.’

At last, his senses returning, Cassios took the very dagger that had pierced Arte’s heart—and drove it into his own.

“Hyacinth witnessed the deaths of his two friends with his own eyes. And over the course of ten years, that tragic moment was reborn through his brush into a painting of such haunting beauty.”

A solemn silence lingered.

Moved by the docent’s captivating explanation, a man began to clap softly. Soon, others followed, their applause echoing through the space.

Rive could not take her eyes off the title written beneath the painting.

[Willingly, I Become Your Dawn]

The image was so vivid and painfully real that she felt as though she were standing within the scene itself, her senses slowly drifting away.

Cassio realized his love for Arte too late and ultimately chose death.

Rive struggled to understand his decision.

She pitied Arte.

A woman who had longed to prove her love by dying.

In the end, her wish was granted.

The faint light of dawn that bathed them carried a quiet, haunting sorrow, and Rive felt her eyes sting with tears.

The ‘dawn’ that Arte had once spoken of —

— was love.

Thud.

After standing before the painting for a long time, Rive was suddenly jostled as the crowd surged forward. Caught off guard, she lost her balance and staggered.

A distracted apology brushed past her ears, but before she could fully register it, her eyes widened at the firm, steady presence that caught her from behind.

“Ah—thank you.”

Saved from falling by the person behind her, Rive quickly stepped away from the brief contact and turned, lowering her head in apology.

‘How much time has passed? Why hasn’t Paul come yet?’

Her thoughts became muddled and hazy. At that moment, she noticed a pair of smooth, high-quality leather shoes in front of her.

Her heart suddenly began to pound violently, and she lost the courage to lift her head.

A familiar scent, one she had long forgotten, brushed against her senses, stirring something deep within her. Her unfocused gaze slowly traced the length of the man’s legs, stopping at his knees.

Her entire body trembled and her breath became shallow.

As she took a step back, preparing to turn and run, a cold hand seized her wrist.

“May I see your face?”

At the low voice, her racing heart seemed to drop straight to the ground.

“It will only take a moment. Lift your head.”

His voice broke, uneven, cutting through her unsteady breathing. Rive hunched her shoulders and struggled to wrench her wrist free.

The more she tried to pull away, the tighter his grip became.

‘Please… let this be a dream. A nightmare—nothing more.’

Unable to say a word, she kept her head bowed as his other hand moved closer to her face.

“W-what are you doing?”

At her urgent voice, his hand—just about to grasp the edge of her wide-brimmed hat—stilled.

Seizing that brief moment of hesitation, Rive tore her wrist free with all her strength. A sharp pain shot through it.

“Excuse me.”

Her voice trembled with tension, and she broke off awkwardly. She could think of nothing else to say.

She ran.

Her legs, which could barely support her, felt unbearably heavy, as if something unseen were weighing them down.

The sharp echo of her heels striking the floor mingled with the frantic swish of her skirt, mirroring the chaos in her heart.

But she didn’t make it far.

The man caught her again, seizing her wrist and forcing her to turn around.

Before she could react, the hat shielding her face was torn away.

Golden strands of hair spilled down past her waist, brushing her pale, drained cheeks.

“……”

Cold blue eyes looked down at her.

Though she tried to hide it, her reflection—fragile, on the verge of breaking—was clearly visible in his gaze.

“Rive.”

The Duke of Blackwood stood before her.

“You were really alive?”

From between his cruel lips, the name she had lived without for five years slipped out.

“You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“A mistake?”

“I don’t know who you’re looking for, but it isn’t me. So please—”

Perhaps his actions seemed laughable because he emitted a deranged laugh and an overwhelming sense of pressure emanated from him.

The people gathered in the gallery recognized him and began to murmur among themselves.

Feeling their eyes on her, Rive shrank back, her slender shoulders trembling.

Andrew pulled her closer, gripping her tightly so that she could not escape again.

“Have you lost your memory in the meantime?”

“……It hurts.”

“So I’m supposed to play along with that?”

Without saying a word, Andrew started walking.

Dragged along behind him, Rive looked utterly lifeless, like a doll stripped of its soul. Her legs gave way beneath her, causing her body to sway as though it could no longer hold itself upright.

After only a few steps, she collapsed and Andrew lifted her effortlessly into his arms.

Her face had turned deathly pale, as though she might faint at any moment, yet she couldn’t find the strength to scream.

Those who witnessed his forceful actions began to whisper among themselves. The noise dulled, their voices fading into a distant, indistinct hum.

Even in that suffocating stillness, the relentless pounding of her heart was the only proof that she was still alive.

Her breathing became ragged.

She couldn’t breathe.

It felt as though something was pressing hard down on her throat.

In that moment, Rive realized that her consciousness was slipping away.

Her vision blurred.

The duke’s face seemed strangely distorted as he carried her.

Perhaps she was mistaken.

Desperate to see clearly, she forced her eyes open once more.

But darkness flickered across her vision.

Finally, her body went limp and she collapsed fully into his arms, drenched in cold sweat.

Supporting the back of her head with one hand, Andrew drew her close to his chest, shielding her face from the gaze of others.

His fingertips trembled faintly.

As though afraid that even the slightest pressure might cause her to vanish again like a fragile dream, he held his breath repeatedly as he carried her back to the hotel room.