He arched a silver brow, amusement flickering across his sharp features, then let out a low chuckle. Running a hand through his long hair, he said, “So it’s true. You’ve lost your memories. The report was accurate after all.”

Before I could react, he closed the distance between us. His palm brushed against my cheek, startling me with its warmth. I flinched but didn’t pull away, caught in the way his violet eyes shimmered beneath the pale moonlight seeping through the window. My heartbeat thundered as if he were about to say something that would unravel everything.

My eyes widened.

In a blink, a shadow darted from the corner of the room, fast and silent. A blade flashed, catching the moonlight. I froze, but before the dagger could reach me, he drew his sword with a hiss of steel. One swift arc of silver light cut through the darkness, and the intruder dissolved into smoke, leaving only the echo of unnatural magic behind.

With that, he turned and strode from the chamber.

Almost immediately, Mary rushed in, eyes wide, bustling to dress me properly. The commotion had spread like fire through dry grass. Guards stormed in, followed by anxious maids and the stern Head Maid herself. Their shock was evident—seeing me not only awake, but standing beside the Grand Duke.

In the parlor, the man—my husband—sat with casual elegance, his long hair tied loosely, no longer armored but dressed in simple yet dignified clothes. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. No wonder Sophie had fallen for him. His beauty was otherworldly, almost untouchable. Unless there existed someone even more striking?

The maids busied themselves preparing tea, but I caught the nervous glances they stole my way. Their fear, however, was not for me. It was for him. They knew the Grand Duke would demand answers.

The room froze. I realized, with growing unease, that this wasn’t just tea. It was an interrogation.

These women… I remembered them. In Sophie’s journal, she had written of their cruelty. They were the ones who mocked and bullied her, the Head Maid most of all. She, who now stood dolled up in altered attire—far too revealing for a servant’s uniform—her gaze shamelessly clinging to the Duke.

Her words trembled with desperation. The other maids quickly mirrored her, groveling on the floor.

The Grand Duke rose, and the air grew tense. He strode toward the Head Maid, who dared to lift her eyes to his. Before she could speak again, he withdrew a folded letter and began to read aloud.

It was a report. A record of my neglect. Of how, during my long silence, my possessions had been stolen and sold off under their supervision. Of how Mary and Dominic alone had kept me alive, despite the others’ abandonment.

“Enough,” the Grand Duke cut her off coldly. “The evidence is clear. For your crimes, you will face one hundred lashes.”

The women collapsed into wails, but his order was final. Guards seized them, dragging them away despite their pleas.

Her face drained of color.

The last I saw of her was her figure being dragged from the room, her cries fading down the corridor.

The silence after the Head Maid was dragged out was heavy, almost suffocating. The Grand Duke remained standing by the tall windows, his broad shoulders outlined by the pale moonlight. His presence filled the room, commanding and unyielding.

“For years,” he said quietly, though the softness of his tone carried a sharper edge than steel, “I entrusted this household to its Head Maid. I believed she would serve you faithfully in my absence.” His hand clenched at his side. “Instead, she and her lackeys reduced the Grand Duchess to misery. Neglect, cruelty, theft… Such betrayal is worse than any enemy blade.”

The maids knelt in silence, their tears soaking into the floorboards.

The orders struck like thunder. The maids collapsed into desperate sobs, but none dared to beg further.

 The parlor was quiet except for the faint scratching of a quill. The Grand Duke sat opposite me, documents spread neatly across the table, his expression unreadable behind a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. He looked every bit the master of this house—stern, calculating, utterly composed.

I lifted the teacup to my lips. The fragrance of roses drifted upward, sweet and delicate, yet something in the scent unsettled me. As the taste lingered on my tongue, my chest tightened.

A memory stirred.

The Griffith garden came alive in my mind. Porcelain clinked softly against saucers. Sunlight spilled over the roses. Reagan’s voice was warm as he introduced me to the Grand Duke.

“Why so polite? This is nothing more than a contractual marriage.”

The memory fractured.

Porcelain shattered. Tea spilled across the ground, staining everything in its path. The scent of roses grew suffocating.

Then the scene shifted. I was on the floor. A man’s weight bore down on me, crushing, suffocating. My wrists burned under his grip as I thrashed and cried out. Pain ripped through me, unbearable, endless.

Above me was a face—blurred at first, then sharpening, piece by piece. Silver hair. Violet eyes. The a glint of contempt in his gaze as my pleas went unanswered.

It was him. The Grand Duke.

“No…” The whisper slipped from my lips before I realized I had spoken.

The memory snapped, and I found myself trembling in the parlor, the teacup rattling in my hands. The Grand Duke had set aside his documents. His gaze fixed on me, sharp with concern, though his voice remained steady.

“Sophie. What is it?”

I shot to my feet, the chair screeching backward. My heart slammed against my ribs as the image of him pressed into me replayed again and again.

“Don’t touch me!” I screamed.

He had only reached toward me to steady my shaking frame, but when his hand closed around my wrist, I tore it free and slapped his touch away. My entire body recoiled from him.

His eyes widened, shock flashing in their depths before his expression returned to cold control. Slowly, he raised his hands, a strict, measured calm settling over him.

“Very well.”

His tone was even, but I could feel his caution, his calculation. He knew something was wrong with me. He knew I remembered something.

But he did not press.

I stumbled back, tears already clouding my vision, before fleeing the room.

Back in the safety of my chambers, I collapsed onto the floor. The rose scent clung to me, choking, unbearable. My sobs shook through the silence as the memory replayed, sharper and crueler each time.

Silver hair. Violet eyes. My said husband.

The Grand Duke.

The sound of the door slamming behind her lingered like an echo in the silence.

Elliot Griffith stood alone in the parlor, his hands still suspended where she had pushed him away. Slowly, he lowered them, his jaw tightening as his violet eyes darkened.

It cut deeper than any blade.

He exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing his composure back into place. His control had been honed through years of blood, war, and politics, but her trembling voice—Don’t touch me!—shook the very foundations of it.

Was this the result of his absence? Or something else, buried in her shattered memory?

He turned away, pacing to the tall window where roses sprawled across the gardens. A cruel irony. Those flowers had once reminded him of her—vibrant, untamed, beautiful. Now, they seemed like stains of blood.

His mind returned to that night. The night he discovered the truth.

The Baron, Sophie's ex-husband, the one who defiled her before their marriage.

That wretched parasite had not only defiled Sophie but walked away untouched, hiding behind his family’s title and wealth. The courts whispered of it, swept it under silken rugs, and dared call it rumor. But Elliot had seen the truth in her broken eyes.

Rage had consumed him whole.

He had left. Not to abandon her—but to hunt.

He dragged the Baron into the shadows, stripped him piece by piece of everything he clung to. Wealth confiscated. Allies severed. Influence dismantled. His family name, once spoken with pride, became a curse whispered in alleys. And when the Baron had nothing left but scraps of dignity, Elliot tore that away too. Homeless. Forgotten. Vermin.

But it had not been enough.

Revenge never erased her pain.

Every night Sophie lay silent in her bed, every day her eyes refused to open, Elliot carved his fury into the Baron’s flesh. Torture was not justice—it was ritual. A vow carved in blood, that his wife would never again be prey to wolves like him.

And yet… in doing so, had he not mirrored his father?

His father, the late Duke, believed strength was measured by cruelty and distance. Who thought silence and iron discipline were the marks of leadership. Elliot had sworn never to become that man. Yet here he stood—cold, absent, and feared by the very woman he had sworn to protect.

The shadow knights had been the ones to report it to him. They slipped into Insel Castle while he was away, tasked with checking her health. Instead, they found her mocked, humiliated, neglected—maids stealing from her, treating her like a discarded relic.

He should have been there.

Late though it was, he had acted. The maids had been dragged to the dungeons, stripped of station, awaiting judgment. But Sophie had not seen his hand in it. All she had seen was the cruel gap of his absence.

And now… her tears. Her voice. Her terror.

She believed he was the man who had destroyed her.

Elliot’s reflection stared back at him in the windowpane. Cold violet eyes. Silver hair. The same face she remembered in her nightmares.

“No,” he whispered, fingers curling into fists. His tone was sharp, a vow. “I never wanted us to drift apart. Not like this. Was it because I was gone during those days that is why she loathes me now?”

The words hung heavy in the still air.

He straightened, resolve cutting sharp across his stern features. He would not give up—not on her, not on their marriage. If she believed he was her enemy, then he would prove her wrong, no matter how long it took.

He would earn her trust again.