Leaving Lucius behind, Celia stepped out into the imperial garden—only to stumble into an unexpected scene.
“Evandor Velastian Brickwell!!”
At Celia’s sharp shout, the woman half-buried in his arms jumped in fright. Flustered beyond reason, she hastily gathered her disheveled clothes and fled without even managing to compose herself.
From the spot that had moments ago echoed with heated breaths and whispered murmurs, Evandor slowly straightened like a lazy beast uncurling itself.
“Sister. Even between family, peeping into your younger brother’s private affairs is hardly proper behavior.”
“…Since when did the imperial garden become your bedroom?”
“Then should I call it my nighttime affairs instead?”
Evandor answered shamelessly, completely unconcerned by the unmistakable traces of debauchery still clinging to him.
Unable to withstand the shocking sight she had accidentally walked into, Celia covered her eyes.
His formal tailcoat had all but lost its purpose. The jacket hanging from one shoulder sagged heavily with uneven wrinkles, while his white shirt had been pulled halfway open in vulgar disarray. The sharp tendons along his neck stood out starkly beneath the loosened cravat dangling uselessly against his skin.
“Don’t be so angry. There’s nothing good about obsessing over a grown man’s relationships.”
As he smiled, a deep dimple carved itself into his left cheek.
“You’re Brickwell’s heir. Should I simply allow your wandering and scandals to stain the family name?”
Evandor tugged lazily at his dangling tie before tilting his head. His brows furrowed as though her words amused him.
“And you, Sister. Can you honestly say you’re acting for Brickwell’s sake?”
Celia looked up at him as if asking what nonsense he meant. Evandor peeled off one damp glove and tossed it aside, his gaze turning colder.
“I’m saying you’re hardly in a position to lecture me.”
He gestured past her shoulder.
His eyes drifted toward the brightly lit banquet hall in the distance.
The meaning behind it was obvious.
Where had she left Lucius?
It was mockery disguised as criticism.
“He’s doing perfectly fine without me. He’s not careless enough to let anyone notice he’s lost his memory, so stop worrying.”
“That’s not the issue.” Evandor scoffed. “Who doesn’t know that bastard Lucius would never let something like memory loss show on his face?”
“Then why are you telling me—”
“If he’s lost his memories, then this is the perfect chance to make him depend on you.”
“…”
“If this part’s broken, imagine how confused and anxious he must feel.”
Evandor tapped his temple twice with his index finger.
“You should be comforting him. Taking care of him. Make him look at no one but you.”
Still the same as ever.
A man utterly lacking in consideration, respect, loyalty, or restraint.
Celia trembled as though swallowing shards of iron.
“No. I won’t do something like that.”
The grin lingering on Evandor’s lips vanished.
“You can’t be serious.”
“And if I am?” she snapped. “You think I’d obediently listen to you dressing up the suggestion that I sell myself to Lucius? I won’t do it. I’ll find what Father wants in my own way.”
“I’m literally handing you the easiest method.”
“Since when was selling your body and heart an easy thing?”
When Celia refused to avert her gaze, the muscles stretching from Evandor’s neck to his shoulders slowly stiffened.
“Even if it’s Father’s order?”
His other glove came off.
Then his hand settled against Celia’s bare shoulder.
At first it was only a touch, but the grip gradually tightened until her eyes sharpened.
“…Let go!”
“It’s Father’s command.” His voice dropped low. “Whether it’s the shipping contract or something else entirely, think about how much would change if you managed to wrap that bastard around your skirts.”
Every time Celia twisted to free herself from his grasp, the emotion on Evandor’s face grew colder.
“Don’t even think about defying Father’s judgment. There’s a limit to how much I can overlook.”
He growled the words.
Damn it all.
The moment the word Father appeared, Celia’s spirit began to crumble.
Evandor scratched relentlessly at her pride, tearing at it until it bled.
Only then did Celia finally fall silent.
She crushed the fabric of her skirt tightly in her fists, lips sealed shut like they had been glued together. Only then did Evandor smile again.
“You don’t want to disappoint Father either.”
He slowly turned her around.
“Of course, now that you’re grown, Father probably won’t lock you in a closet or throw you into the stables during winter anymore.”
“…Don’t you dare bring up the past.”
Ignoring her warning, Evandor stretched out a finger and pointed toward the path leading back to the illuminated banquet hall.
The heavy scent of women’s perfume still clung to him, and the force of his hand made quiet fury crystallize across Celia’s face.
“Don’t make this difficult, Sister. All we’re doing is taking advantage of a crippled Lucius. If you just do as Father says—as I say—then no one will have to make those pretty eyes of yours cry again.”
“Evandor Brickwell!”
At last, he removed the hand resting on her shoulder—
Only to shove her away with that same force.
“Think only about Brickwell. Don’t try any clever tricks.”
Celia lost her footing for a moment and stumbled across the stone path.
By the time she regained her balance, Evandor stood beneath the moonlight with one hand buried in his pocket while casually waving the other.
“I’m just reminding you what really matters.”
As soon as Celia disappeared from sight, the smile vanished from Evandor’s face like frost melting away.
He stared stubbornly after her shrinking figure until it completely disappeared.
“Young Master, what shall we do?”
A servant who had been hiding nearby while observing the entire exchange finally approached him.
Brickwell’s loyal hound—raised to suppress emotion and obey orders alone—waited dutifully for his master’s answer.
Evandor pulled a carefully dried cigar from inside his coat.
“Leave her.”
“But—”
“What? You want to run to Father and report that my sister is disobeying orders?”
With the unlit cigar resting between his lips, Evandor raked a hand through his hair and spoke coldly.
The servant flinched and took a cautious step backward.
Evandor inhaled deeply on the cigar despite it lacking flame. His hollowed cheeks sank into shadow.
“She’s throwing another pointless tantrum because she doesn’t know her place. Leave her alone. Let’s see how far she gets this time.”
He had quit smoking the cigars he’d once carried around in his reckless youth.
Still, whenever something filthy clouded his mind, he found himself chewing on one like this.
“Young Master…”
“She’ll be caught by Father soon enough anyway. We’ve planted enough eyes in Windmere already.”
Their father’s chains were not something one could escape so easily.
Because Celia refused to accept that truth, she had endured endless “lessons” beneath Brickwell’s merciless rules.
Locked in closets under the excuse of reflection.
Forced to sit through meals while being fed the leftovers the rest of the family had abandoned.
Forbidden from speaking.
Made to kneel for hours on end.
It would have been easier to surrender.
Evandor had learned obedience through watching Celia.
After witnessing what happened whenever his sister defied their father, how could he dare choose the same path?
“Oh my, Lord Evandor?”
“What are you doing here?”
At that moment, a group of noble ladies passing nearby spotted him and burst into delighted giggles.
Unbothered by his indecent appearance, they approached without hesitation—pressing against his chest, wrapping themselves around his arm, scattering sweet whispers from crimson lips.
“…I’ve just been abandoned.”
“Liar!”
“Still, we’ll pretend to believe you! Why don’t you come spend time with us instead?”
Evandor flicked the cigar from between his lips and tilted his head back.
Under the flood of starlight, his blue eyes gleamed like a tranquil lake.
“No. I’m not in the mood.”
Normally, he would have welcomed their touch without hesitation.
But Celia Brickwell—
Blind like a moth that knowingly flies into fire over and over again.
She had always been that way.
Celia had never easily cowered before their father. She always stared straight at him, brazen and unyielding.
And all young Evandor had been capable of was holding his breath quietly behind her back.
“Ha… seriously.”
My cunning, vicious, unbearably relentless sister.
“She has a real talent for making people feel like shit.”
A talent for making someone who had chosen to sink quietly into stagnation feel utterly miserable.
Between the thick perfume and bitter cigar scent, Evandor slowly closed his eyes as though sinking beneath dark water.
“Disgusting” wasn’t enough to describe how Celia felt.
Practically shoved back into the banquet hall by Evandor, she carried her simmering anger with her, casting cold glances across the room.
But the atmosphere inside felt strangely noisier than before she had left.
And the way people looked at her now—
There was something different in their eyes.
Something subtle. Strange.
What is this?
Still, she quickly pushed the thought aside and focused on finding Lucius.
Men like him always attracted swarms of opportunists eager to lick at sweetness like ants, so she assumed he would be easy to locate.
“Lady Celia… no, Duchess Windmere.”
Just as she stepped toward the thickest part of the crowd, someone called out to stop her.
Already irritated by the familiar interruption, Celia turned her head with faint annoyance.
Then, the moment she recognized the speaker, a flicker of surprise crossed her face.
“It’s been a long time,” the man said with a smile. “I suppose this is our first meeting since our engagement was broken off?”
