​As it turned out, the rumors were not wrong. He was indeed a man shrouded in a murderous aura, marked by a cold exterior and a mysteriously silent demeanor.

​However, while others trembled in his presence, I felt the exact opposite. Instead of fear, I found myself captivated by his outstanding presence. It wasn't just an impression; it was an instant, overwhelming attraction.

​Yet, he paid me no mind. It was understandable, of course—how could an ordinary maid with nothing remarkable about her ever hope to catch the eye of a man like him? I told myself this repeatedly, but I couldn't stop the sharp pangs of jealousy and resentment that flared whenever he ignored me or showed affection to another woman.

​We had no real relationship to speak of, and to my dismay, his stay at the mansion was brief—a mere three months. His business kept him away for years at a time, making our first encounter feel cruelly short. To me, the time he spent away felt like thousands of decades spent in waiting. I constantly wished for his return, longing for him to appear before me and ease the ache of his absence.

​Three years later, my wish finally came true. He returned, and we were reunited.

​I was overwhelmed with joy, but that happiness vanished in an instant. My affection and admiration soon withered, replaced by a deep, indescribable hatred.

​It happened one evening while I was cleaning his bedroom. I never expected that the most horrific nightmare of my life would unfold while I was simply performing my duties. That night, that bastard committed a disgusting and unforgivable act against me.