Celia hated Lucius.
The resentment between their families had nurtured her dislike for the Windmires since childhood, certainly—but even without that, she simply could not stand Lucius himself.
The only son of House Windmire, born merely three days before her.
What better subject for idle aristocrats to gossip about?
From the very moment they existed in their mothers’ wombs, the two had attracted attention. People whispered endlessly about which child would prove superior, what sort of history this generation would carve into the Empire, hiding none of their curiosity behind fluttering fans.
And as if to satisfy those expectations, Celia and Lucius despised each other thoroughly.
“If you knew I was attending this party, shouldn’t you have stayed away even if it meant breaking your own legs?”
“Well now. The lady hosting this party personally begged me to attend. Rather than the invited guest leaving, perhaps you should go instead—considering you merely tagged along on your younger brother’s invitation.”
They had once exchanged words like that openly in front of an entire ballroom.
Five years old. Six. Seven… eighteen, nineteen.
Ever since their first meeting at the age of five, they had written a new chapter of conflict every single year.
The incident where they grabbed each other by the collar and rolled across the floor during an Imperial-sponsored banquet over insults aimed at each other’s fathers? That was merely the beginning.
Celia had slapped him across the face once. Lucius had pushed her into the water once. Celia had stolen his hunting falcon. Lucius had nearly beaten to death a man considered one of her marriage candidates. Celia had thrown tea at him. Lucius had trampled one of her books beneath his boot.
That was the sort of relationship they had.
The hatred between their families was merely an excuse.
At some point, they had moved beyond hating each other’s houses and come to loathe one another personally.
As much as she detested him, he despised her equally.
Everyone knew it.
People even joked:
“Lady Celia won’t spare a glance for anyone who has stepped foot in Windmire territory.”
“And Lord Lucius refuses to visit any place Lady Celia has even looked at.”
Which was why the shockwave caused by a single newspaper article two and a half years ago had been enormous.
[ Windmire and Brickwell End Their Longstanding Feud Through a Marriage Alliance — A Symbol of Reconciliation Between the Two Great Houses! ]
Rumor had it that even Marchioness Wexley—the famously sleepy grand matron of noble ladies and esteemed member of the Privy Council—had leapt upright and fallen out of bed after reading it.
Reconciliation between the two houses was good news, certainly—but a marriage between those two heirs, notorious for their hostility toward one another?
Naturally, everyone had plenty to say.
Rumors spread everywhere. That Celia had gone on a hunger strike. That Lucius had abandoned his home and run away. Society watched closely to see how the situation would unfold.
And then, in the end, the grand wedding took place.
No one failed to notice how hard the bride and groom had tried as they entered the ceremony without even an engagement period between them, both wearing utterly expressionless faces.
Why else would the guests have swallowed nervously throughout the entire ceremony?
People worried over absurd things—whether the vows would be torn apart halfway through, whether the rings would be thrown, whether the bouquet would be crushed beneath someone’s heel.
Fortunately, none of that happened.
Because the two of them, hating each other as fiercely as they did, had united long enough to make an entirely different vow together.
[ They would divorce after three years of marriage. ]
Yes.
That single promise was the only reason Celia could endure the disgrace of taking the Windmire name.
The vow she had shared privately with Lucius Windmire alone.
“My son…! My son, Lucius!!”
“There was an ambush! There were civilians behind him, so the young duke held them off desperately, but… one of the arrows struck him, and when he fell from his horse he hit his head terribly!”
The golden hair she had come to hate so much was drenched in blood.
The overwhelming stench of blood filled the vast castle.
“We’ve done everything medically possible for now. From here on… it depends entirely on the young duke’s will to survive.”
The voices of doctors, servants, and the duchess on the verge of fainting all tangled together, drilling mercilessly into Celia’s skull.
She stared coldly at the man lying on the bed, barely breathing.
Dark circles shadowed her eyes after spending the entire night awake because of that damned man hovering between life and death.
They would divorce after three years.
Now, with only half a year left until that promise came due, a new problem had appeared.
Because nowhere in their agreement had they prepared for a situation like this.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The oak clock ticked with maddening regularity.
Half a month had already passed. Lucius, who had returned gravely injured, still had not awakened.
Celia, exhausted from sleepless nights, pressed a hand to the bridge of her nose and glared at the clock. Unaware of her irritation, its delicate hands continued their precise movement.
“My lady, the young duke has long since passed the critical stage… please go and rest now. If only for this old man’s sake, do not become another patient.”
Only after the physician finally gathered the courage to speak did Celia move at all.
“You say he’s out of danger. Then why hasn’t he woken up yet?”
The doctor wiped away cold sweat at her calm question.
“He suffered a severe blow to the head. The stab wound to the abdomen was not fatal, but recovery will still take time.”
The physician looked as though he were the patient himself, not the man lying in the bed.
Celia turned her gaze toward Lucius.
What exactly am I doing here because of him?
Against the white sheets, Lucius lay half-covered by blankets.
Bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen, the ends neatly tucked beneath his side. Yet dark stains still spread faintly across the cloth.
They said the stitching was successful. He’s not going to die like this, is he?
His face looked unnaturally peaceful for someone so badly injured.
Only the uneven rhythm of his breathing proved he was alive.
Had his chest not risen faintly each time he inhaled, she might have believed him dead rather than sleeping.
“Instead of me, perhaps you should leave. You look like you need rest.”
“My lady, how could I possibly leave you here alone—”
“All the other physicians have already gone to sleep. And you said yourself he’s past the worst of it. Whether you stay or not won’t make much difference, so leave.”
Unable to resist her insistence any longer, the old physician finally shuffled out.
Once he left, Celia rose from her seat.
Expressionless, she stepped beside the bed and looked down at Lucius.
Pale face. Lips closed neatly.
Several strands of blond hair had slipped free from the bandages around his head, flattened as though damp—like wheat soaked in morning dew.
The white cloth wrapped around his forehead, ears, and the back of his head made clear just how badly he had been hurt.
But Celia did not particularly care.
“You’re not planning to die like this, are you, Lucius Windmire?”
She leaned over him slowly.
With a dangerous look in her eyes, she spoke to the unconscious man who could not hear her.
“I won’t forgive you if you die and turn me into a widow. But if you survive halfway and leave me caring for you for the rest of my life, I won’t forgive that either.”
In six months, they were supposed to divorce cleanly.
If he never woke up—or worse, became crippled, unable even to sign divorce papers and forcing her into lifelong nursing duty—then she would rather kill him herself and reclaim her freedom.
At that exact moment, the door burst open.
Celia straightened instantly as a shrill voice rang out behind her.
“What are you doing there?!”
The duchess stumbled into the room in disheveled clothing.
Rushing forward, she shoved Celia weakly.
“What did you do to my son?!”
Naturally, just as Celia trusted no one in the Windmire household, the Windmires trusted her no more than that.
Two hundred years of hostility would not melt away because of a single sentence called reconciliation.
“I’ve been caring for him devotedly. Since Your Grace has been bedridden with worry these past two weeks, I’ve practically been directing everything myself.”
“Caring for him!? Are you sure you weren’t harming him instead? Ah—someone fetch the doctor! We must make certain my son hasn’t suffered further injury!”
People immediately gathered around them.
The Windmire servants clustered around the duchess. Celia’s attendants, who had served her since maidenhood, stood firmly at her side.
The room split into two camps.
“Surely you aren’t accusing our lady of harming the young duke?”
“She has cared for him day and night, and yet you say such things—!”
Her attendants whispered indignantly, and the duchess’s servants bristled in response.
“Oh? So Lady Celia truly stayed here out of concern for our young duke? Perhaps we should check whether the sun rose twice today!”
“What are you all standing around for?! Bring the physician at once!”
No one found these clashes unusual anymore.
The duchess clutched her forehead as though suffering a headache while Celia merely inspected the tips of her fingernails with disinterest.
“Oh dear, oh dear… I shall attend to the young duke myself. Raising your voices like this before a patient helps no one!”
The physician, summoned back only moments after finally escaping, practically shoved the two women out of the room. His assistants looked on the verge of tears.
Outside the chamber doors, the opposing groups of maids immediately began bickering again.
“This is all your fault!”
The duchess suddenly thrust her face through the crowd, veins bulging in her neck.
“Were you calling for me?”
Celia pointed at herself lazily with one finger.
The duchess’s flushed face twisted with fury.
“Do you know what I just heard?!”
Until now, Celia had tried her best not to become entangled with the lady of Windmire.
It wasn’t as though they would spend their entire lives together. She intended to leave once the divorce was finalized, so there was no reason to create unnecessary conflict.
Still, there was one thing she knew for certain about the duchess.
“I heard speculation that the people who attacked Lucius were spies sent by Brickwell!”
The duchess adored her son beyond reason.
After giving birth to Lucius, she had been left unable to bear more children. Perhaps because of that, all her affection and obsession had centered upon her only son.
It was utterly unlike Celia’s own family, where she had two younger brothers and enough illegitimate siblings from her father’s affairs that she had long lost count.
“It’s only speculation.”
“You think excuses like that are enough? The swords used by the attackers were identified as prizes from a hunting tournament hosted by your family years ago!”
Perhaps because she knew Celia had avoided conflict until now, the duchess—normally distant toward her—seemed half-mad today.
“Nothing good has happened since you entered this house!”
Unfortunately for her, Celia had been born a fighter.
A woman who had battled Lucius since the age of five was hardly going to ignore words like that.
“Whether I entered this house or not, Windmire has always operated the same way. It seems the Windmires simply cannot bear their own shortcomings unless they blame me for them. How tragic.”
“Ah… ahhh…”
The duchess promptly grabbed the back of her neck and collapsed once more.
Another fainting spell.
How delicate she is.
Celia scoffed softly as servants scrambled around the fallen duchess.
Lucius himself had been just as combative as she was. He never avoided a fight, whether he started it or she did.
And yet the mother who gave birth to such a man was absurdly fragile.
Then—
The massive doors that had remained tightly shut suddenly slammed open.
“My lady! M-My lady!!”
The elderly physician came charging out, red-faced and breathless despite clearly being at an age where he ought to care for his back.
He spotted Celia standing nearby and hurried over.
“What is—”
“The young duke has awakened!”