“I told you I didn’t.”
“Are you angry?”
“Mr. Sting.”
“Abel.”
Only then did their gazes meet.
The sun, briefly hidden behind clouds, emerged again. Clear light streamed through the spotless window. Abel watched, holding his breath, as the darkened pupils slowly returned to their natural color.
Like dust settling to reveal clear water.
Seo-ah’s eyes, filled with sunlight, felt just like that.
“You’re pretty even when you’re angry.”
“…No, I’m not.”
“Oh? You thought about that one, didn’t you?”
“I said no.”
Abel smiled as her face grew redder.
“Honey.”
Seo-ah, who had maintained her composure until then, finally snapped.
“Please, stop saying that!”
“Alright. I’ll stop if you call me Abel.”
“……”
“So…?”
“Okay, Abel. Stop it.”
“Yes, honey.”
Her face—flushed red with anger—froze. Then, as if she could no longer continue the exchange, she turned toward the room.
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just a habit.”
“I’m sorry, but I was about to have my meal.”
If she had truly been furious, she would have slammed the door and gone inside. But watching her say this while trying to hide her obvious irritation was genuinely amusing. That was why he kept wanting to tease her like this.
Still, he could not only tease her.
Before Seo-ah disappeared behind the door, Abel asked—his voice stripped of its usual playfulness—
“Does it hurt a lot?”
Seo-ah, who had been about to close the door without replying, paused.
“No.”
Of course, the playboy did not miss the opening.
“If it hurts, shall I take care of you? You’ve been sick and alone for two days. It’s terribly lonely to be ill by yourself.”
“No!”
The woman, who had tried to remain polite to the very end, finally raised her voice in anger. Abel responded with a low laugh.
Got it.
He had a feeling.
This absurd talent of his.
In good spirits, Abel murmured to the closed door.
“I’ll come by later!”
There was no reply, but it did not matter. He turned away smiling and left the study at an unhurried pace.
Click.
The Marquis’s space, flooded with clear sunlight.
Moments after the door facing the corridor closed—
somewhere within the vastness of the Marquis’s domain, a very heavy presence began to move, its steps slow and deliberate.
—
“It rained heavily until dawn, but it’s clear this morning. Luxen’s weather really does change in an instant.”
The head maid, wearing a lace cap that allowed not a single strand of hair to escape, spoke as she drew back the long curtains. Approaching the window far from the bed, she looked toward Charlotte—lying with the back of her hand against her forehead—with concern.
“Oh dear, Madam Marquise. Do you have a headache?”
Charlotte, who had been keeping her eyes tightly shut, finally sat up. At once, the head maid draped a silk gown over her shoulders. Bending down, she slipped soft slippers onto Charlotte’s bare feet as she descended from the high bed.
“Shall I bring you some medicine for your headache?”
Charlotte shook her head as if even answering were tiresome and moved to her favorite sofa.
That movement was a signal.
The maids of the Jerome household, who had entered with the head maid and stood like shadows along the walls, sprang into action the moment Charlotte sat down and placed her legs on the footrest.
One brought water for washing. Another brought a comb and pins for her hair. Behind the maid washing her face, two maids assigned to skincare waited in line. Others knelt nearby with warm, damp towels to tend to her hands and feet.
The service provided to a queen would have been no more elaborate.
Meanwhile, the head maid placed a plush cushion behind Charlotte’s back and asked,
“Would you like a scalp massage?”
Charlotte, resting her head against the sofa back with her eyes closed, finally spoke.
“Yes. Please.”
The head maid signaled for the others to begin and started massaging Charlotte’s scalp.
Charlotte, who ruled as the de facto mistress of the Count Jerome household, maintained an appearance that made it hard to believe she had grown children.
With age, even abundant hair inevitably lost its vitality and dried, and ladies of Charlotte’s years had long since turned to wigs. Yet Charlotte’s blonde hair remained full and lustrous, its color unfaded. Her skin was smooth, free of deep wrinkles, and her figure slender, without excess weight.
Only the aura surrounding her carried the mark of age—and even that only enhanced her allure. Beyond that quality, which younger women could not imitate, there was little to betray her years.
The title the greatest beauty of East Norfolk was not one easily earned.
Yet such titles, like a double-edged blessing, always carried whispers with them.
The ladies of Luxen praised her beauty to her face, but behind her back, they traded murmured words among themselves.
It was because she had reached that point that she could maintain the title of Marquise Reinhardt while also serving as the mistress of the Count Jerome household. Was that all? She had even made her daughter—labeled a bastard—the next queen.
Count Jerome’s mother was still foaming at the mouth over the fact that her only son had never entered a proper marriage and had merely remained Charlotte’s lover.
Had Charlotte’s status been weaker, she would have been called a concubine. But the name Reinhardt was more than enough to eclipse Jerome. The Count Jerome family had only recently begun to be recognized among the nobility, and even then, Charlotte had played no small role in that ascent. Thus, whispers that the Count was the Marquise’s lover were inevitable, and his only daughter, Sabine, could not escape being called the Marquise’s bastard.
Charlotte was a woman burdened with many labels.
Yet one thing was certain: no matter what, what she held in her hands could not be touched lightly by anyone.
Whether it was her status, her circumstances, or her beautiful appearance.
The maids assisting Charlotte with her morning toilette kept stealing glances at her face. The head maid, massaging her mistress’s scalp, shot a sharp look at the maids peeking at Charlotte. Startled, they withdrew their necks like turtles and averted their eyes.
Charlotte, who had kept her eyes closed the entire time, opened them.
The head maid asked with relief,
“How are you feeling? Are you a bit better?”
Charlotte made a small gesture toward the voice above her head.
“Thank you. I feel a little better.”
As soon as she spoke, the head maid moved to Charlotte’s right and offered her a glass of lukewarm lemon water.
“You must not have slept well because of the rain last night. You always get headaches on days like this, don’t you?”
Charlotte drank the lemon water in one go, then glanced toward the maid waiting to apply her makeup and said to the head maid,
“That will be enough for this morning.”
The maid who took the cup from Charlotte tilted her head.
“But you mentioned you had an appointment with the ladies this morning…”
“As I said, I have a bit of a headache.”
“Shall I inform them that it will be difficult to meet?”
“Yes, please.”
“Then, regarding the young lady’s exhibition…?”
“I can attend in the afternoon.”
“Shall I bring you some medicine for your headache?”
“That won’t be necessary. I think I’ll feel better if I rest for a while. Breakfast isn’t needed either, so don’t bring it.”
“Understood.”
The perceptive head maid immediately stepped back. The surrounding maids rose in unison to follow her. As they withdrew like a receding tide, Charlotte was left alone in the quiet room.
You must not have slept well because of the rain last night. You always get headaches on days like this, don’t you?
Just as the head maid said.
She had been unable to sleep last night because of the rain. She had closed the doors and drawn every curtain so that not a single drop could seep in, yet there was no way to shut out the peculiar scent, humidity, and sound of a rainy day.
Charlotte, gazing out the window, rose from the sofa and walked toward the window.
Beyond the spotless glass, the wet world typical of a post-rain morning stretched out before her. It had poured all night, only to stop with unsettling clarity.
Rainy nights carried an inherently unpleasant feeling.
It hadn’t always been like that. There had been a time when she found charm in rainy nights—or so it seemed. It was so long ago now that she could barely remember.
It had been more than twenty years since rainy nights became unbearable to her. And even after all this time, she still couldn’t find a word to describe that discomfort.
What was it?
A sensation like well-digested food lodged deep in the stomach. A suffocating pressure, as though invisible hands were squeezing her internal organs. That nameless discomfort would only fade once the rain stopped, or when the day finally broke.
She could not name the feeling, but she knew its source.
Oscar.
Her son, who resembled his father in every way, bearing not a single trace of her. Looking at him inevitably reminded her of that man.
Oscar’s father.Her legal husband.
Ernst von Reinhardt.
The moment she first saw him remained vivid.
Clad in a military uniform heavy with dozens of medals, wearing a military cap, mounted on a horse black as soot. Even from a distance, the face beneath the cap was so handsome one could not look away.
“That man. He is the one who ruined your family.”
The late king’s low voice pierced her ears.
“I will arrange your marriage. What happens after that is up to you.”
The late king continued to speak, sowing words that fed Charlotte’s desire for revenge. And Charlotte listened obediently.
Yet there was one thing the late king never knew.
She herself had not mourned the destruction of her family all that deeply.
A family noble in name alone—and she was a bastard within it. While bastards were common enough, not all bastards had their status secured. There were bastards, and then there were bastards.
In her life, nothing had ever truly belonged to her.
—