Every head in the corridor snapped toward the doctor.

For a moment, the air itself seemed to stop.

“The young duke has regained consciousness!”

The physician looked as though he had rushed out in such a panic that he had not even managed to dress properly. Clutching his coat tightly in one hand, he struggled to catch his breath before repeating himself.

Only then did life return to the faces that had been steeped in mourning after the duchess collapsed once more. In an instant, the silent hallway erupted into chaos.

Celia, too, was finally able to release the tension she had been unconsciously holding in her shoulders.

As long as he had woken up, that was enough.

Still, the relief she felt was somewhat different from everyone else’s joy.

If I become a widow, I’m doomed. Unless I remarry, I’ll have to keep carrying the name ‘Windmere.’

And worse—

She would be forced to wear black for at least a year.

“I’ll go in.”

Pushing past the servants who were nearly trembling with excitement over the awakening of Windmere’s sole heir, Celia approached the bedroom door.

Had the duchess been awake, she would have immediately demanded to know where Celia thought she was going. But the lady of the house was currently being hurried away in the arms of her maids.

There was no one here capable of stopping Celia now.

Though she tried not to show it, her steps felt impossibly light.

If he’s awake and sane enough to think, he’ll sign the divorce papers.

After all, he surely did not wish for her to be buried beside him after death either.

The tightly shut doors opened halfway.

As Celia stepped through the thick scent of medicinal herbs, the first thing she saw was the physicians and assistants bustling frantically around the room.

Then, through the gaps between them, she saw the man sitting upright on the bed.

His long lashes fluttered slowly, as though trying to clear the haze clouding his vision, while he answered the assistants’ questions in a low voice.

“—Your name?”

“Lucius.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“...My room, perhaps.”

His voice was slightly hoarse, but calm and unhurried. Low and quiet, yet enough to make everyone lean closer to listen.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“...Not quite.”

Something about this conversation felt strange.

“Do you remember how you were injured?”

“No.”

Celia, who had been peering through the crack in the door, finally pushed it open fully.

The soft creak of the hinges blended into the room’s commotion, and at the same moment, Lucius came clearly into view.

Lucius Windmere—

freshly risen from his sickbed, his complexion deathly pale from prolonged illness—

pressed a finger lightly to his temple before parting his dry lips.

“I don’t think my head is functioning properly right now.”

The scratching of pens against paper abruptly stopped.

Celia, who had just crossed the threshold, froze like a carved doll.

It had been fifteen days.

Fifteen days of him hovering at death’s edge before finally waking up and freeing her from the fate of becoming a widow.

“I-I’m sorry, but what exactly do you mean by saying you can’t remember? Do you… do you remember me?”

“Were we acquainted?”

Lucius tilted his head slightly.

“I’m afraid I can only tell you that I don’t recognize a single face here.”

It was still deep dawn, the kind where darkness felt almost comforting.

Pale morning mist slid down beyond the glass windows.

A cool summer chill drifted in through the slightly opened window meant to air out the overwhelming smell of herbs.

The increasingly anxious doctors continued throwing questions at him, and his calm replies came intermittently in return.

His speech was smooth. Refined.

Usually, Lucius’s eyes had been cold as frost and empty as still water.

But now they were strangely blurred.

As though no emotion remained within them at all.

Then those hazy eyes turned toward her.

Past the doctor’s shoulder, his gaze pierced directly through the woman standing stiffly by the doorway.

His eyes widened slowly.

The unfocused pupils sharpened, locking precisely onto Celia.

“......”

“......”

His breathing changed.

The previously steady rhythm slowed—careful now, cautious.

Celia’s fingertips tightened soundlessly.

They recognized one another.

Yet neither spoke.

Lucius, seated upon the bed, looking up at her.

Celia, standing motionless by the door.

Several people stood between them, accompanied by the soft sound of water, the scent of medicine, the rustle of clothes—

and yet the tension between only the two of them stretched taut enough to snap.

Just as the silence threatening to swallow the room whole reached its peak, a maid who had overheard the doctors gasped from the corner.

“Oh… my goodness…”

The sound was like a pebble thrown into still water.

Celia finally exhaled the breath trapped in her chest, her fingers pale from how tightly she had clenched them.

It did not take long for her thoughts to begin moving again.

“Y-Young master, I’m sure it will be alright.”

“It can’t be anything serious. Your memories will surely return soon, so please don’t worry—”

“We’ll do everything we can to find a solution.”

The doctors, still flustered, rushed to comfort Lucius.

He responded politely enough, though without any soul in his voice.

Even so, his eyes never once left Celia.

Because Lucius’s gaze remained fixed in one direction, everyone soon noticed her as well.

“Everyone, get out.”

Celia dismissed them sharply as she stepped forward.

The neatly tied ribbons in her hair swayed behind her.

When she reached the foot of the bed, she stood tall and looked down at him.

Soon, the servants and physicians hurried out in a flood until only the two of them remained.

Lucius looked directly at her.

Silence lingered for several seconds.

His brows furrowed faintly.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Celia beat him to it.

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

Her eyes gleamed like those of a hunting hound.

The hand that had gone pale moments ago flushed red with anger.

You lost your memory? What a joke. This bastard is obviously trying to toy with me again.

The foolish fear she had endured for fifteen days—that he might truly die and leave her a widow—became fuel for her fury.

Lucius gazed quietly at her.

“I’m not falling for that.”

The divorce papers she had spent six months preparing had only arrived at the estate two days ago.

And now what?

Now, when they should have been sitting down to finalize everything, he conveniently forgot everything?

If he’s lying to deceive me, I’ll kill him.

And if he really did lose his memory, I’ll still kill him.

She glared down at him with a mixture of disbelief and rage.

As she stepped closer, something in Lucius finally shifted.

He sat carelessly against the white sheets, one arm draped loosely beside him.

Then his nose twitched ever so slightly.

His gaze deepened.

Celia trembled faintly as she bit down on her lower lip, and Lucius’s eyes traced slowly across her face.

The light swimming in his eyes narrowed to a single point.

That focus landed on her lips—

lips she had bitten raw countless times.

“You—”

The words she was about to spit out vanished uselessly beneath the hand that suddenly cupped her cheek and pressed over her mouth.

“Mm!?”

Her tightly shut lips parted helplessly beneath his touch.

Lucius lowered himself slightly, staring at the lips trapped beneath his thumb.

Her teeth dug into his finger as she struggled, but he paid it no mind.

Celia’s breath caught.

Confusion spread across the face that had been burning with fury moments ago.

Her lips remained parted instinctively, unable to close.

Her fluttering eyes froze, trembling beneath widened lids.

Watching her reaction, a slow smile curved across Lucius’s lips.

“I think…”

His arm braced itself beside her at the edge of the bed.

The sheets wrinkled smoothly beneath his movement as he leaned toward her.

His large frame loomed over her threateningly, close enough to steal away her very breath.

Warm air brushed faintly against the tip of her chin.

His shadow fell across the hem of her dress.

Then, for the first time, Lucius smiled fully.

A thin line of amusement spread across his pale face.

At the unfamiliar sight of that smile, Celia froze like stone.

“There’s one thing I do remember.”

His voice dropped softly.

“You looked beautiful crying beneath me.”

It was the height of a sweltering summer.

And Lucius Windmere had returned utterly insane.