There were two noble houses in the Empire whose influence rivaled all others: the House of Windmere and the House of Brickwell.
Among them, the Dukedom of Windmere stood apart. Though they had amassed unimaginable wealth by embracing the full force of the Industrial Revolution, they remained stubbornly devoted to tradition and hierarchy. Their tastes were old-fashioned to the core, and even their castle reflected it. Rather than dazzling luxury, it was built to inspire awe and intimidation.
To the Windmeres, excessive extravagance and shallow displays of wealth were disgraceful.
In one corner of the room, linen curtains folded neatly to either side in muted gray-brown tones. Velvet-framed portraits lined the walls in solemn order, as though guarding generations of tradition.
The woman stared coldly at the portraits of the former Duke and Duchess of Windmere—their sharp, irritating eyes immortalized in paint—until a large hand wrapped around her ankle, forcing her attention downward.
“L-Lucius… ah!”
A man resting his head against her pale legs slowly came into focus through her blurred vision.
“What are you thinking about so deeply when I’m right here beside you? Hmm?”
His red lips curved faintly as he lifted his head, his eyes unfocused, almost delirious.
But before she could answer, he cupped her cheek and pressed his lips against hers. Her body collapsed backward onto the bed as if pushed by the force of him. Gentle yet overpowering hands pried apart her tightly closed mouth, and the fragile thread of composure she had clung to unraveled instantly.
“Ah—! Wait… L-Lucius!”
Though the window was half open, the room felt unbearably heavy. Every breath carried damp warmth down her throat, and the heat lingering in the air clung endlessly to her skin.
As her legs instinctively drew together, he held them firmly in place and effortlessly invaded the space between them.
He swallowed every shallow breath she released as though unwilling to let a single one escape. His thumb brushed across her flushed cheeks, and he felt her tremble beneath him.
“I have… something to say…!!”
Overwhelmed by the relentless sensations crashing through her, she shook her head desperately.
“You’ve kissed me this many times already, and you’re still this shy about it. What am I supposed to do with you?”
Her vision clouded white as her entire body trembled.
Normally, Lucius was endlessly attentive with her. He kissed her in a way almost absurdly tender for a man like him. He would stroke her unfamiliar, tense back over and over, press soft kisses against the corners of her reddened eyes when things became too much for her, and whisper clumsy sweet words until she melted beneath them.
But tonight was different.
Now he devoured her lips as though biting into them, driving her relentlessly to the edge.
“Mmgh…!”
At last, her nails raked across his thick forearm, leaving sharp marks behind.
Tiny drops of crimson fell onto the sheets.
“Celia, don’t cry.”
His voice sounded deliberately gentle as he wiped the moisture from his lips.
“I’ll give you everything you like.”
Blood trailed down his wrist as he brushed sweat-soaked strands of hair away from her face. Unable to accept the reality before her, Celia squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. The man who had been lifting himself over her suddenly paused.
“…Hah. Celia.”
Gripping her chin before she could bury her face into the pillow, he pressed her down beneath the overwhelming weight of his broad body.
The pressure stole her breath.
“Ugh…”
She writhed weakly like a trapped animal, yet he did not move at all.
Only his eyes wandered restlessly across every inch of her face.
“Celia.”
“……”
“Celia.”
“……”
“Celia.”
Their chests pressed together, his heated body swollen with restrained desire, their heartbeats echoing against one another.
At last, Celia’s trembling eyelids slowly lifted, revealing the blue eyes she had tried so hard to hide.
His perfectly sculpted upper body reacted vividly to every breath he took. Starting from the center of his chest, her gaze slowly traveled upward along the line of his throat.
His breathing drifted close to her now.
Every breath was tightly controlled, suppressed with effort—yet that restraint only made him more dangerously alluring, though he seemed unaware of it. Eventually, his eyes met hers and locked there.
Smooth, elegant eyes hidden beneath striking lashes.
Eyes so carefully composed they were almost frightening.
He resembled his famously beautiful grandmother so perfectly that praise was the only thing anyone could ever offer him. Once, to everyone except her, he had been called the greatest gentleman in the Empire.
Which only made him more infuriating.
“Lucius… let go…”
The man who had desired her moments ago was also the one who deserved every ounce of her resentment.
Lucius Eliah Rowan Windmere.
“Lucius? You should call me ‘Lu,’ Celia.”
“Don’t… joke around.”
“You promised me, remember? You said you’d call me sweetly.”
From the moment they were born, they had been compared to one another endlessly—a relationship built on rivalry, anger, and fierce competition.
And at the same time…
He was her husband.
“If you weren’t simply toying with me while I lost my memories, then prove it. Call me properly.”
A husband bound to her by a three-year marriage contract that had included the promise of divorce from the very beginning.
“You can’t seriously think we’ll still be able to divorce now.”
“You…!”
Her hoarse voice barely escaped her throat before his hand pressed firmly against the swell of her stomach, swallowing every protest whole.
“It’ll be difficult now that there’s a child involved, won’t it?”
Everything had begun to fall apart six months ago—
the moment that man lost his memories.
Celia Vale Lysandra Vivienne Brickwell had been born with everything the world could possibly offer.
As the eldest daughter of House Brickwell—one of the two great ducal families that upheld the Empire and protected the Imperial throne—there was nothing lacking in the life of a young lady like her.
She did not yet understand just how immense the glory she possessed truly was. But there was one thing she knew without fail:
A Brickwell must always hold her head high.
Her childhood had unfolded among dresses embroidered with golden lace and silver thread, in tea rooms scented faintly with herbs, beneath the steady ticking of clocks that chimed precisely on the hour.
And so, by the age of five, Celia already knew how to lift a teacup with perfect elegance using gloved fingertips. She could tie her own ribbons without a maid’s assistance and carried herself with impeccable composure.
For a child who had lived such a peaceful and sheltered life, meeting him became the event that would change everything forever.
It happened on the day of the Imperial annual patronage gathering.
It was also Celia’s first official outing, her tiny hand clasped tightly in her busy father’s.
Ministers lined up to pay their respects before the Crown Prince, while the children of nobles quietly passed time in the corners of the garden, away from the watchful eyes of adults.
The weather was gentle.
Sunlight glittered sharply without feeling harsh, and the warm air unique to early summer spread through the gardens. The scent left behind as dawn’s dew dried drifted softly from the flower petals. Roses, lavender, and clematis each flaunted their own fragrance, tickling at her senses.
“I shall greet His Majesty and return shortly,” her father said. “Stay here quietly with Solame in the meantime.”
Celia kicked a pebble beneath her shoe with mild irritation.
How could anyone look at such a beautiful garden and expect her to sit still?
“Oh, my lady! You mustn’t do that. Your dress will get dirty!”
Nagging Solame.
Celia’s lips puffed out immediately.
Her father could be gone for who knew how long, and she was supposed to stay obediently beside the strictest maid in the entire capital?
Absolutely not!
In the end, she escaped Solame by lying that she was going to play with children her age. Freed at last, Celia eagerly wandered through every corner of the Emperor’s garden.
Leaves shimmered like lanterns beneath the sunlight, and even the fluttering wings of tiny insects looked translucent in the glow. Shadows of trees rippled like watercolor paintings across glass.
She was admiring it all with sparkling eyes when her ears suddenly perked at the sound of a boy’s voice drifting from beyond the bushes.
“—So you’re saying Father still can’t leave the council chamber because of Brickwell?”
Celia froze mid-step.
Hm?
She had definitely heard the name Brickwell.
Her head slowly rose like a curious turtle’s.
Beyond the bushes stood a blond boy.
Early summer sunlight poured through the leaves above him, and within that light he looked unreal—like an illustration torn from a fairy tale.
“...Honestly, I’m sick of it. Brickwell has never once been useful.”
Celia’s eyes widened.
For a second, she wondered if she had misheard and rubbed her ear with her fingertips.
“It’s insulting enough that Father even has to stand alongside people like them.”
Shock quickly turned to outrage.
In all five years of her life, Celia had never once learned to endure such things—and so her feelings immediately became action.
“Who do you think you are talking badly about my father?!”
Hands planted on her waist, she stormed out furiously.
Perhaps startled by the sudden voice, the boy who had been looking up at his servant turned toward her, his eyes widening slightly.
His calm gaze settled on her slowly.
“If you don’t take back what you just said,” Celia declared, “you’re going to regret it.”
The boy looked her up and down.
His eyes were strangely composed—far too mature for someone his age.
“...Your father?”
“Yes!”
The mysterious boy studied her carefully.
There was something unsettlingly adult about his quiet gaze, enough to make Celia hesitate for a brief moment.
His golden hair was neatly combed, soft bangs falling over his forehead. Bathed in sunlight, his hair gleamed somewhere between honey-gold and platinum, so radiant that it kept drawing her attention no matter how hard she tried to focus elsewhere.
So instead, she fixed her stare on the green eyes beneath his long lashes.
They were clear eyes, like fresh summer forests. In shadow they looked bluish; in sunlight they shone like vibrant leaves in midsummer.
They were exactly the same color as the eyes of her favorite rabbit doll.
Then, as though realizing something, the corners of the boy’s mouth lowered slightly.
“I wasn’t insulting him. I was stating reality. Because of your father’s mistake, my father has been trapped in the council chamber for two hours.”
While Celia had been observing him, he too had thoroughly examined her. Crossing his arms casually, he regarded her with cool eyes.
“...What?”
Celia faltered.
She had charged out fully prepared to scold him for his rude remarks, but—
“I was taught that a true noble acknowledges shortcomings with dignity,” he continued calmly. “Apparently you weren’t. Thanks to your attitude, I now understand at least a little about how ‘Brickwell’ educates its children.”
For the first time in her five years of life, Celia understood what it meant for one’s head to ring.
It took her a moment to untangle the meaning hidden in his words—but only a moment.
Then, instead of his face, she examined his clothing.
An ivory linen shirt. A cream brocade vest. Over it hung a deep navy velvet jacket fastened with only a single button. She noticed the elaborate lace at the sleeves and finally the brooch embroidered with his family crest upon his chest.
Celia’s expression twisted instantly.
“That’s… the Windmere crest!”
Only direct blood relatives were allowed to bear a family’s symbol.
Unlike Celia, whose second younger brother had recently been born, House Windmere had only one heir.
The very same boy she had heard about endlessly since birth.
Lucius of Windmere.
The moment she recognized him, Celia’s already sharp voice turned needle-pointed.
“Ha! I understand now. Father mentioned recently that the head of House Windmere apparently lacks both hands and feet, since mine has to handle all of your family’s work too.”
Twitch.
For the first time, the expressionless boy—Lucius—showed a reaction.
His brow twitched faintly.
Grinning, Celia raised her short, chubby hand to her mouth in imitation of an aristocratic lady.
“But it’s alright. Father said nobles must graciously understand the shortcomings of those beneath them and guide them properly.”
“You.”
Lucius’s eyes shook slightly. A short breath slipped between his lips.
His widened gaze fixed squarely on her.
“Well, whatever. It must be difficult for you,” Celia continued smugly. “There probably aren’t many ‘inferiors’ your father is actually capable of managing.”
“Are you insulting House Brickwell right now?”
“That wasn’t my intention. But if it sounded that way, I apologize.”
Even at five years old, Celia knew causing trouble at the Imperial Palace was unacceptable.
She gathered together every scrap of patience she possessed—which amounted to less than an ant’s tear. Her body trembled with anger, but a lady could not simply throw punches like the poor residents of Dunrow Hollow.
Of course, nobody had said she couldn’t use her mouth.
“You’re right, though. Still, isn’t it fortunate? At least your family can manage being the Empire’s finest drapers.”
It was a deliberate insult.
Among the old nobility, Windmere’s investments in industry and association with rising merchant classes were often looked down upon. Celia herself barely understood the true weight of the word; she had only recently overheard her parents using it.
What mattered was this:
She had just compared one of the Empire’s greatest ducal houses to common cloth merchants pretending to be nobles.
Lucius reacted immediately.
His cheek bulged slightly, as though he were biting the inside of it hard.
At the same time, he slowly raised a finger.
The black-gloved index finger pointed directly at her.
“That reminds me,” he said coldly. “I once heard that Brickwell’s butchers enjoy taxing outdated traditions.”
Flames practically burst from Celia’s eyes.
She clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles hurt.
“At the very least, one should know dignity. Polluting others’ ears with vulgar language is hardly admirable. I don’t know what they teach in Brickwell, but I can already tell it isn’t worth my interest.”
And just like that, Celia’s tiny reserve of patience finally ran dry.
Though calling it “tiny” was generous—it had been smaller than her little fingernail to begin with.
Celia kicked off the ground in her pretty sky-blue shoes—
And after that, there was hardly any need for explanation.
The two of them, furious beyond reason, rolled across the lawn clutching fistfuls of each other until their hair was full of grass.
Nobles rushed over to separate them, while the gardener—who kept the Imperial gardens beautiful year-round—looked close to tears at the destruction unfolding before his eyes.
And thus began their ill-fated relationship.
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