Marquis Hawke's marital bedroom resembled a family crypt more than a bridal chamber. Vast, drowning in semi-darkness, and furnished with heavy black ebony wood, it seemed to greedily absorb all light and sound. In the center, like a granite sarcophagus, the bed rose beneath a massive canopy.

Amelia, in a long white nightgown, stood frozen in the middle of the room like a small, pale ghost lost in the realm of shadows. The cold of the stone permeated her bones even through the carpet.

Directly opposite the bed, above the extinguished fireplace, hung a huge portrait in a heavy gilded frame. An elderly woman in a mourning gown stared from the canvas with cold, vacant eyes. The artist's skill was terrifying: her gaze seemed alive, judgmental, and aimed directly at the center of the marital bed.

The heavy door creaked open. Marquis Hawke entered.

Without his ceremonial doublet, he looked terrifying. Thin, with parchment-like skin stretched over his skull. His old-fashioned nightcap and robe hung on his sharp, bony shoulders as if on a hanger in a dusty closet. Trailing behind him like undertakers were his gaunt secretary with a ledger and the pale-as-death Clara, holding a flickering candle in a trembling hand.

"Milord... that portrait..." Amelia's voice trembled, echoing off the walls. "She is looking right at the..."

"My late mother," the Marquis pronounced with a reverence bordering on fanaticism, without even glancing at his wife. "She always watches over me. Her holy spirit sustains me through all important moments in life."

A wave of nauseating horror washed over Amelia.

Watching... Is he serious?! I have to... under the scrutiny of his dead mother?!

She took a step back, instinctively trying to delay the inevitable.

"Milord, the witnesses... perhaps they could wait outside the door? A secretary... a man. This is... this is too humiliating."

"Enough of your whims!" the Marquis cut in irritably. "Everything will proceed according to protocol! They have a report to write for the palace, so your father will have no claim against the legality of the marriage. Stop chattering! No one here cares for your opinion. Get into the bed at once!"

Head bowed, she approached the bed on wobbly legs and lay down on top of the cold brocade coverlet, stretching out and freezing like a marble effigy on a tomb lid. She closed her eyes, but immediately heard his footsteps and smelled the scent—the stale smell of old age, medicine, and tobacco.

"Lift your skirt," he ordered crudely, [🕯️]."

Her hands trembled. Slowly, consumed by shame and humiliation, under the attentive gazes of the secretary and the weeping Clara, she gathered the hem of her nightgown and raised it.

[ 🕯️]

Why am I crying? she thought detachedly, as if observing herself from afar. Stupid... It's just... physiology. In my past life, I’ve done all this before. Men, relationships... This isn't the first time. So why... why is it so unbearable and vile right now?

A brief, bright image flashed in her memory from another life: young Bok-hee, about twenty-five, sitting in a sunny Seoul cafe, laughing at a joke made by a handsome man. Lightness. Warmth. Reciprocity.

And then the realization pierced her, sharp as a needle. Amelia's eyes snapped open. The tears dried instantly, and clarity emerged in the depths of her gray eyes.

Ah... so that's it. Choice. The act itself isn't the issue. The issue is that my voice was taken away. I wasn't asked. My body is being used like inventory. Like a rented machine.

She took a deep, convulsive breath, forcefully driving self-pity to the farthest corner of her consciousness.

But... this is temporary. This is merely a circumstance beyond my control. I can't drown in emotions. I need to think. How to fix this? How to... change this?

It ended as crudely and abruptly as it began. The Marquis simply climbed off the bed, without even glancing at her, as if concluding a tedious medical procedure.

"It is done. Recorded?" he threw at the secretary. The man nodded. "Get out. All of you."

Clara ran to Amelia, helping her up and wrapping her in her robe. Her hands were shaking more than her mistress's. Together with the impassive secretary, they hurried toward the exit.

Just as Clara was about to close the heavy oak door behind them, Amelia abruptly stopped her, placing a finger to her lips. She listened.

The Marquis Hawke, left alone in the gloom, approached his mother's portrait. He stood before it, his posture one of fanatical devotion, and his voice sounded chillingly tender:

"Did you see, Mother? I put that arrogant royal upstart in her place. She will bear heirs, just like all the others before her. She will be obedient, just like all the others."

Amelia's face, illuminated by the dim light of the corridor, reflected a complex range of emotions: disgust mixed with a sudden, cold illumination.

Senile dementia... was her first thought. He's talking to a painting. I remember my neighbor Hwang In-chae from my past life... his family suffered so much with him before he passed away. Am I truly destined to be a nursemaid to a madman?

She watched the old man stroke the portrait frame, whispering affectionate words to the void.

Wait.

Her brain, conditioned to seek advantage in any catastrophe, worked at a furious pace, transforming horror into strategy.

But this... this might not just be a weakness. This could be the key. He doesn't just respect his mother. He worships her.

A barely perceptible, hard smile appeared on her lips.

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