Servants hurried through the hallway, setting the long dining table, polishing the silver, and lighting candles.

In Serielle’s room, a maid tightened the straps of her dress.

Another ruffled her hair, weaving it into something more noble.

She wanted to push their hands away.

Lady Evelyne leaned against the doorframe, wrapping her hands around her chest, watching with frowning lips.

“I don’t understand why she has to look pretty,” she muttered. “She won’t have anything interesting to say.”

One of the younger maids hesitated, glancing at Serielle in the mirror, but said nothing.

Baron Thomas stepped in, ignoring his daughter’s complaints completely.

“Serielle, you look beautiful,” he said with a pleased nod. “The Duke will be here soon. Come downstairs.”

Serielle swallowed, smoothing her skirts.

Evelyne huffed. “You’re sitting her at the table?”

“She’s a guest in this house,” her father said, already turning away.

“She’s a stray you picked up in the street,” Evelyne replied back in a sharp voice.

Serielle lowered her eyes, gripping the folds of her gown.

Baron Thomas exhaled, rubbing his temples. “For once, Evelyne, just—” He shook his head. “Behave.”

Evelyne scoffed, but when her father left, she turned back to Serielle with a smirk.

“Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Serielle saw her in the mirror, with a blank face.

She wouldn’t.

Evelyne followed them downstairs…

“I still don’t think she should be having dinner with our guest,” she muttered. “It’s bad enough you’re letting her stay here, but now she’s sitting at our table? With the Duke, the king’s nephew? Honestly, Father—”

Baron Thomas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“If Mother was here, she would not allow it,” Evelyne continued, ruffling her hair. “You know that, right? Can you imagine her reaction?”

“Your mother spoils you too much,” Baron Thomas said with concern. “It’s why you think so little of people.”

Evelyne rolled her eyes. “I think of them exactly as they are. Like I said, you found her in the street, dressed like a beggar—”

“And does the appearance of beggars make them beggars?”

Evelyne blinked, then laughed. “What are you saying? That she’s secretly a princess?”

Baron Thomas raised a brow. “And if she was?”

Evelyne snorted. “Then I suppose you’re too old for fairy tales.”

Baron Thomas exhaled, shaking his head as they reached the sitting room.

“One day, Evelyne, you’ll learn that the world is stranger than you think.”

Evelyne furrowed her eyebrows and narrowed her eyes. “I doubt it.”

Serielle knew very well that Raphael always arrived on time.

It was one of his commendable habits.

James, the butler, opened the doors to the sitting room with a crisp bow.

“His Grace, the Duke of Ardenhyll.”

Raphael Arden entered. He walked like he was measuring his steps.

“Baron de Aragorn,” he greeted him, offering a short nod. “Lady Evelyne.”

Evelyne beamed, curtsying gracefully.

“It is always an honor.”

Raphael barely acknowledged her before he saw Serielle.

His brows furrowed a little, as if trying to recall where he had seen her before.

And then, recognition came.

His lips pressed into one line. The mute girl from the wood. Why is she here?

Baron Thomas cleared his throat. “This is—”

“An unfortunate case,” Evelyne interrupted with a sweet smile. “She collapsed in the market, and my dear father, being a kind-hearted man, brought her home.”

Serielle kept her eyes on the floor, hands folded tightly in her lap.

She was getting more and more used to the sharpness of Evelyne’s tongue.

Evelyne continued in a light tone. “We’re hoping that, with proper care, she will recover enough to continue her journey. She’s quite lucky, really.”

“That’s enough, Evelyne,” Baron Thomas said, strictly but calmly. “Shall we move to the dining room, Your Grace?”

Raphael gave a slow nod, feeling more speechless than Serielle herself.

He said nothing more as he followed the Baron inside.

The dining table was shining in the light of the chandelier.

And of course, Baron Thomas—by design or negligence—had placed Raphael and Serielle side by side…

The clink of silverware against porcelain filled the silence.

Serielle kept her eyes on her plate, willing herself to become invisible.

But Raphael’s presence beside her was like magic she couldn’t ignore.

“So,” he said idly, cutting into his meat, “how fortunate you are to find such generous benefactors.”

Serielle’s fingers tensed around her fork.

Oh, Raphael. I’ll feel lucky if you’re not cold to me.

“Not everyone is so lucky,” Raphael continued. “Some people are simply…born to struggle. To know their place.”

Serielle swallowed, forcing herself to take a bite, though it tasted like dust in her mouth.

Baron Thomas chuckled, unaware of the poison in Raphael’s words.

“Well, I believe kindness is never wasted. One never knows who someone might turn out to be.”

Raphael gave a cold smile. “A noble sentiment. Though some people never change, no matter how much kindness is wasted on them.”

Serielle felt her heart break. This Raphael was not hers.

The man beside her wasn’t the one who had once smiled at her with warmth, who had touched her hand with assurance and promises and love.

That Raphael had been tempered by war, by loss, by betrayal.

This one was still whole, untouchable, and yet somehow crueler.

I thought that seeing you again would bring relief. Instead, it feels like grieving for someone still alive.

Across the table, Evelyne sipped her wine, glancing between them with interest.

“You’re quite opinionated tonight, Your Grace.”

Raphael didn’t look at her. His gaze remained ahead, his jaw tight.

“I simply believe people should stay where they belong.”

Serielle refrained from sighing heavily as her chest suddenly tightened.

Raphael’s words made her feel terrible.

She didn’t belong anywhere. Not anymore.

The dinner was uncomfortable because of Raphael’s obviously arrogant attitude.

At one point, Serielle reached for the bread.

Her hand brushed the edge of Raphael’s plate. In an instant, he shoved her—hard.

She fell to the floor, knees rubbing against the cold marble.

A sharp crack struck through her hand.

The pain was hot and sickening. Her fingers were wrong, twisted, distorted.

The room froze in time.

Evelyne gasped, her chair scraping back.

“Your Grace!”

Baron Thomas surged to his feet, anger darkening his features. “Your Grace!”

Serielle didn’t move. Didn’t cry out. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

She kept her head down. If she looked up, she would meet his eyes, and then she might break.

Raphael stood up, his fingers curled into fists.

“Your Grace,” Baron Thomas said, his voice sounding tighter this time.

“What was that?”

Raphael didn’t even look at Serielle. “She was too close.”

“Too close?” The Baron’s tone turned aggressive. “She was reaching for the bread.”

Raphael took his seat again, as if nothing had happened. “Then she should be more careful.”

Serielle curled her fingers around her injured hand, trying not to whimper from the electric pain.

Evelyne let out a small, ticklish sound, quickly stifled by the lifting of her goblet.

Baron Thomas breathed out uneasily, his neck tightening with anger.

But Raphael Arden was still the Duke of Ardenhyll, and a man like Baron Thomas knew better than to start a fight he could not win.

He turned to the waiting servants. “See to her hand.”

They moved quickly, helping Serielle up, guiding her away.

She let them, not wanting to look at Raphael…refusing to look at anyone.

Behind her, the clink of a goblet against the table. Raphael, finishing his wine.