Ersian Walter Hessen is the third son and the frail, beautiful heir of House Hessen. He is currently secluded in the family’s annex.

Aged twenty-four, he was the only unmarried young master of striking beauty, and inevitably the subject of much gossip among the maids whenever they had a spare moment.

Not for his looks, of course, but for his entirely unbecoming temperament.

They said his heart was as hard as a broom that was a hundred years past its prime. They said he was only sickly because he spent his days being spiteful.

They wondered whether a man with such terrible social skills could ever marry and, if he did, how many divorces it would take before he learned his lesson.

Tongues clicked and clucked every time they gathered.

Now, the young master, whose future divorce count was anticipated more eagerly than his first wedding, was in a foul mood.

Ersian sat on the balcony outside his study, overlooking the garden below.

His blue eyes were cast downwards, appearing cold.

For someone gazing at the estate’s famed garden — its pride and joy — the look in his eyes was far too hostile.

Johnny, his guard, aide and practically his nurse since childhood, followed his icy, burning stare, trying to guess what had soured his mood this time.

Perhaps it was the duke or his brothers, none of whom he got along with, who were somewhere below.

But that wasn’t the case.

The clear sunlight scattered beautifully across the garden, where the only things in sight were the flourishing summer roses and the occasional gardener passing between them.

‘Surely he doesn’t hate roses today…?’

Given that Ersian had once found a floral scent “offensive” and ordered the flowerbeds uprooted entirely, Johnny stiffened at the thought.

Then those pale pink lips parted softly.

“Short, with hair like a mangy dog, dull eyes with not a shred of life in them. There’s nothing worth looking at except that needlessly large br*ast.”

Short.
Mangy hair.
Dull eyes…
Johnny’s brown eyes fluttered, following the string of insults until they landed—briefly and mortifyingly—on the only “needlessly large” feature matching that description. He jerked his gaze away at once.

He pressed a hand to his forehead.

There was exactly one person in the garden who fit the young master’s description.

“Young master, are you aware that what you just said qualifies as s*xual harassment?”

“Could she possibly hear me from here? If so, I’ll run over and apologize immediately.”

Even if the maid had heard everything, there was no way that Ersian would go over and apologize.

Johnny clicked his tongue at the blatant lie and looked back towards the garden.

In a far corner, beneath a large tree, a small maid was sitting alone, crouched down.

Servants who weren’t gardeners were forbidden from entering the garden, but Ersian didn’t seem to be criticizing her for that.

‘She just looks quiet.’

What on earth had she done to catch the eye of the notoriously ill-tempered youngest master?

Johnny didn’t know, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

Just then, Ersian, seated with one leg crossed and posture full of insolence, muttered in disbelief.

“What is that supposed to be now?”

The maid, who had been fiddling with something, suddenly set fire to her hair.

Johnny squinted to get a better look, then jumped in shock. Meanwhile, Ersian raised his eyebrows and scoffed.

“Unbelievable.”

Fortunately, the fire only singed the tips before dying out. Even from a distance, however, the maid’s expression was deeply distressed.

It was then that Johnny realized she had been holding a matchbox, and he let out a weary sigh.

“Using matches in the garden…”

“She’s out of her mind. Either that, or she’s too stupid to know you shouldn’t be handling fire near plants.”

The tone was sharp, but accurate.

For once, Johnny found himself quietly agreeing while Ersian clicked his tongue.

Yet those blue eyes did not leave the maid.

She clutched her uniform, burned through by stray sparks, and looked pitiful. The sight amused him far too much. He watched her, making no effort to hide his disdain, before suddenly asking.

“Johnny, are the maids’ uniforms provided by the estate?”

Wondering why this was suddenly of interest, Johnny still answered dutifully.

“Yes. They submit a request form, and once the head maid approves it, a uniform is issued.”

“There are cases where it’s rejected?”

“Since the annual budget is limited, yes. If the reason is deemed insufficient, they likely have to purchase it themselves.”

“Then tell me, does that look like something that would be approved?”

“That one?”

“If a grown adult plays around with matches, burns a hole in her uniform, and then asks for a replacement—do you think the head maid would approve such a ridiculous request?”

“…”

“No matter how poorly disciplined the staff have become, even with a scatterbrained girl like that assigned under me, I would never approve it unless I’d completely lost my senses.”

“Well… I suppose I think similarly.”

“Of course you do.”

Johnny watched the young master, who was in an unusually good mood, with growing unease. Whenever Ersian looked like this, someone ended up fired, dismissed or thrown out altogether.

Surely he wasn’t planning to throw that maid out.

Yes, she deserved to be punished for entering the garden without permission and playing with fire, but that was the head maid’s responsibility, it was not something the young master needed to handle personally.

Nevertheless, Ersian rose from his seat, seemingly dismissing any doubt, and began to hum under his breath.

Sensing that another unfortunate soul was about to be expelled, Johnny followed Ersian with growing worry.

Meanwhile, Moed, who was still in the garden, had no idea what was happening upstairs.

She stared miserably at her uniform.

‘Ruined.’

She had only meant to remove a loose thread from the sleeve, but ended up poking holes clean through it.

Sighing, she eyed the large gaps, which were big enough for her fingers to slip through.

Where had she gone wrong?

She immediately dismissed the thought, answering herself that everything had gone wrong.

The first mistake had been noticing the loose thread on her way back from an errand.

The second was the matchbox in her apron pocket at that very moment.

The final mistake was being so focused on lighting the match that she hadn’t realized her hair tie had snapped.

Moed bent down to pick up the tie that had fallen onto the grass. Her thick, curly hair often broke ties unexpectedly.

Holding up the frizzy strands and sniffing the lingering burnt smell, she sighed deeply again before gathering her ruined uniform and standing up.

“Smelling yourself like some dog…”

Bleakly, she wondered if she could salvage the uniform. Suddenly, she heard a voice that was both familiar and unfamiliar, and her head snapped up.

‘The young master.’

Moed didn’t realize the remark had been directed at her. Instead, she stood there grinning foolishly for no reason.

It was unusual to see the young master outside in broad daylight; he usually confined himself to the top floor.

Although human essence could only be absorbed through direct contact, its scent and taste could be experienced simply by being nearby.

Moed wanted to soothe the misery of her ruined uniform with just a whiff of the young master’s sweet essence.

With that questionable intention warming her chest, she watched the approaching footsteps, dark leather shoes moving steadily closer.

Following her instincts rather than propriety, she couldn’t help but keep glancing at the prominent outline beneath his dark trousers.

Knowing all too well how thick and hot and firm it was, her mouth watered reflexively, even though she wasn’t hungry.

Her focus blurred as a dazed thought drifted through her mind: Maybe I should visit him tonight and taste it again…

“Hey, duster.”

What a thing to hear, she thought. An odd nickname drifted into her ears, and Moed blinked before asking politely.

“Are you referring to me, young master?”

“Yes, you. Do you see anyone else around here with hair like a dust rag?”