Rive jolted awake and, seeing the empty seat beside her, shot upright in alarm.

Rogiella was gone.

Certain that they had already arrived in Southfirth, she hurried to her feet, afraid the train might depart again at any moment.

“Ahh!”

From the corner of her vision, a couple seated diagonally across smiled warmly as their baby giggled in delight.

For a moment, her attention was almost drawn to the child—but the sight of people moving busily outside the window snapped her back to urgency.

The moment Rive stepped off the train, a whistle blew sharply behind her.

She turned instinctively to watch the train pull away and only then did something feel… wrong.

“Southfirth? You still have two more stops to go.”

The answer she received from the station clerk was completely unexpected.

“This is a transfer station. The next train to Southfirth arrives in an hour.”

Only then did Rive realize, the bag she had been holding was gone.

Not just that—her hat, and even the necklace she always wore around her neck… all of it had disappeared.

Her hollow gaze dropped to the ground.

Letting her guard down, even for a moment, in the face of such overwhelming kindness—that had been her mistake.

Her eyes, clouded with confusion, darted around restlessly.

A harsh wind swept through the station.

After quietly thanking the clerk, Rive dragged her feet forward.

Then, at the edge of the station, she spotted an empty bench.

In a single moment, she had lost everything.

Her money had been in that bag.

Now, she was left with nothing.

The memory of Rogiella’s warm, easy smile burned bitterly in her chest.

To think she had felt relieved—believing she had safely escaped Bloodtail.

How foolish.

How utterly pathetic.

Rive sat there in a daze, staring blankly at the empty tracks.

“Miss.”

After sitting like that for a long time, struggling to hold back the rising tide of emotion, Rive turned reflexively at the voice beside her.

An elderly man stood there.

She looked at him with wary eyes.

“I’m not a suspicious person, so don’t be alarmed. It seems you’ve been pickpocketed, haven’t you?”

At his gentle tone, Rive hesitated—then gave a small nod.

Her fingers, numbed by the cold, trembled faintly.

Curled in on herself, she barely managed to endure the chill seeping into her body, her breath escaping in visible puffs.

“You’re headed to Southfirth, aren’t you? I can give you a ride.”

“…Excuse me?”

“There’s no need to be afraid. My name is Marsili Burnett. I run a small farm in Southfirth.”

Rive couldn’t understand why the old man was showing her such kindness.

There was no such thing as kindness without a reason. Hadn’t she just learned that from Rogiella?

“I have a granddaughter about your age. From the looks of it, you’ve had all your money stolen and are stranded here with nowhere to go.”

“But…”

“Well, if you don’t like the idea, I won’t insist.”

“W-Wait!”

Rive shot up from the bench and hurriedly reached out, stopping him just as he turned away.

The biting cold stung her nose and cheeks. Her golden hair fluttered in the wind, brushing against her flushed face.

Facing him again, she hesitated, unable to find the words.

Then Marsili Burnett smiled gently.

“You can rest easy. I just felt sorry seeing you sitting there like that.”

He gestured for her to follow and began walking ahead.

Rive trailed behind him cautiously, a trace of bitterness settling across her face.

***

“Andy.”

He looked up from the documents spread across his desk.

He hadn’t even heard a knock—but Heather was already standing before him, her expression clouded with distress.

He gave her a brief glance before lowering his gaze back to the papers.

“There’s no need to go this far.”

Rive Grandly’s whereabouts were still unknown.

From the moment he learned she had run away, he had searched relentlessly—tearing through every place like a hound—but there was no trace of her.

“Andy…”

Heather’s voice trembled.

Left standing there like she didn’t matter, his indifference slowly chipped away at the restraint she had been clinging to.

“I thought you would divorce that woman.”

The words slipped out impulsively—but they were true.

All she had wanted was to make that woman realize her place.

That position had always belonged to her. That the duke she could never have… had loved her.

That was what everyone believed on the surface. And because of that, Heather had never realized the mistake she was making.

She was already consumed by her desire to possess Blackwood—her judgment and reason long since dulled.

“Do you understand that forging a signature is a crime?”

Heather’s hand, clutching the hem of her skirt, flinched.

Though his gaze never left the document, the corner of Andrew’s lips lifted ever so slightly.

“I told you—once the war ended, you would cut ties with the Grandley family.”

“I did.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

She couldn’t read his emotions, and that only made it more suffocating. Still, she wasn’t foolish enough not to notice—he was different from usual, twisted in a way she couldn’t grasp.

Andrew set the file down and lifted his head.

His dry, lifeless gaze fell on Heather, who trembled where she stood.

“I meant cutting ties with that damned Naitale—not throwing that woman out.”

“….”

“I have nothing more to say. Leave.”

Heather didn’t move.

Instead, she bit down on her lip and stepped closer.

Her shoulders shook. She tried to swallow whatever it was—anger or sorrow—but his unmistakable irritation pushed her past her limit.

She slammed her hand against the desk.

“You’re the one who accepted me as your mistress, Andrew!”

“….”

“You’ve already done something to her that can never be undone.”

“….”

“You hated her anyway. Every time you looked at her, your eyes were full of contempt! Isn’t this better? She left on her own—shouldn’t you be grateful?”

Their gazes locked in the air between them.

Andrew remained unmoved.

Heather, on the other hand, looked as though she might shatter at any moment, her breath coming unevenly.

Back when he left that woman like a doll locked away in a cabinet—and now this?

It was absurd.

“I know you haven’t forgiven me completely. But I told you—I had my reasons. And you accepted me anyway. What clearer answer could there be?”

Tears spilled from her wide eyes, falling onto the desk and spreading like dark stains.

The coldness in his gaze as he looked at them made her feel as though her throat were being crushed.

“Are all Bricklin women this shameless?”

It felt as though something inside her was slowly being eroded under his gaze.

She was afraid—of what he might say next.

And yet, with a steady expression, she spoke words she had never once dared to voice before.

“I regret… every day I spent away from you.”

Her voice trembled.

Andrew let out a short, quiet laugh.

It had been a long time since she had seen him smile—but this was different.

He rose from his chair.

As he stood, her head tilted back to meet his height. His hand brushed through her disheveled hair, gently tucking it behind her shoulder—a gesture that almost felt tender.

“Were we ever in a position to speak of regret?”

“….”

“Why don’t you stop putting on such a pathetic act?”

His voice, low against her ear, froze her in place.

Her body stiffened. Her eyes, slowly filling with dread, darted as she looked up at him.

Leaving her standing there, he turned and walked toward the office door.

He opened it.

The cold air from the corridor spilled into the room.

Standing aside, his quiet voice pierced her back like a blade.

“You had your chance, Heather.”

She couldn’t bring herself to turn around.

“Leave.”

***

“My apologies. We couldn’t find any trace of the duchess anywhere.”

Andrew exhaled slowly, a cigarette between his lips. Pale smoke rose in wavering strands, clouding his vision.

“A woman who knows nothing beyond managing the estate… left no trace at all?”

Derek Douglas lowered his head stiffly, staring at the carpeted floor.

“We’ll… continue the search—”

“Unless someone deliberately helped her cover her tracks.”

Andrew, who had been looking out at the snow piling beyond the tall windows, turned his head.

The moment their eyes met, Derek flinched.

Clicking his tongue, Andrew crushed the cigarette into the ashtray.

“Otherwise… she’s hiding something.”

“Y-Your Grace…”

“Explain.”

At the sharp command, Derek broke into a cold sweat, straightening where he stood.

He swallowed hard.

Andrew’s fingers tapped against the table—steady, measured, urging him on.

The Duke of Blackwood was the very image of noble perfection.

A man of impeccable dignity.
A refined gentleman.

Setting aside whispers that painted him as a war-mad brute, a cold-blooded man—his public reputation was flawless, almost unnaturally so.

But Derek, who had served under him for years, knew the truth.

He knew just how calculating—and merciless—this man could be.

A moment like this felt no different from standing on the execution block.

At last, with a sense of resignation, Derek spoke.

“My lady… is dead.”