Blair did not miss the opening; she slipped from his arms and headed toward the greenhouse without a single glance back.
She had a premonition that if she looked, if their eyes met, she would be devoured then and there. *Thump, thump.* Her startled heart hammered against her ribs.
Fortunately, he did not follow. Sensing this, Blair’s pace gradually slowed.
Once she was entirely alone, she brought a hand to the back of her neck, tracing the spot where his lips had lingered.
*……It’s hot.*
The skin felt strangely scorched. Blair stared into the distance with clouded eyes, her fingers continuously grazing the sensitive area until the phantom heat began to fade.
* * *
Time flowed, and the day of the banquet arrived before she knew it.
As the maids bustled about, finishing the final preparations, Blair stood alone in her bedroom and inspected the back of her neck in the mirror. Fortunately, the mark Headrin had left had faded until it was barely visible.
She had first discovered it on the morning after the painter had visited while she was dressing.
“My Lady, it would be best to wear your hair down today, wouldn’t it?”
Mely, who had been brushing Blair’s hair, asked cautiously. When Blair, not yet having noticed the mark, asked for the reason, Mely had faltered, looking mortified. It was only then that Blair realized what Headrin had left behind.
*Still, it’s a relief that it disappeared before the banquet.*
Feeling settled, she turned to the window. The sky was darkening, and the hour approached. Just as Blair rose from her vanity for a final inspection, Lina’s voice came from the door.
“My Lady, the preparations are complete.”
Blair stepped out immediately. Standing on the landing, she looked down at the servants gathered in the main hall. On their chests were silver brooches shaped like the wings of the divine beast—the symbol of the Del Marc house.
They were pieces Blair had custom-ordered. She wanted everyone attending to see their allegiance clearly, and she wanted the staff to feel a deep sense of belonging to the Del Marc name.
She observed the scene with satisfaction, asking herself, *Is it perfect?*
It was a question she had posed to herself countless times in her past life, and a question she had heard others answer incessantly. But now, she no longer needed their validation. It was perfect in her eyes; it was satisfactory in her heart.
That was enough.
Blair descended the stairs and stood before them.
“You have all worked hard.”
She scanned the faces lined up before her. Among them were those who held no love for her, and perhaps a few who had been moved to goodwill. She was, after all, only the mistress of the dukedom with a set expiration date. But today, setting everything else aside, everyone in this hall was Del Marc.
Blair smiled brightly.
“Then, let us begin welcoming our guests.”
* * *
The banquet was a success.
“I was worried because this mansion had spent so many years without a hostess, but now that I’ve come in person, I don’t feel that at all.”
“I can tell how much thought the Duchess put into this; the effort is evident.”
Every noble who spoke with Blair praised the event and the residence. Most were families of the Imperial faction, and the vassals of Del Marc—much like in her past life—seemed to smile with honeyed words while masking their displeasure. But that didn’t matter anymore.
Blair felt honorable in her own eyes.
“That’s right. I can feel the Duchess’s deliberation in a single glass of wine. It doesn’t seem like your first banquet at all, does it?”
As the noblewoman showered her with praise, Blair answered inwardly.
*Of course. Because it isn’t my first.*
However, burying that secret, she simply flashed a dignified smile. She was, after all, born an Imperial Princess.
When the group finally drifted away, the space around Blair went quiet. Clutching her glass, she slipped toward a corner of the hall. Despite a lifetime of state events, the social performance remained exhausting.
As she scanned the peak of the festivities, she saw her husband.
He stood out even among the throngs of people. It wasn’t just their matching attire; his height and his face—which lived up to the reputation as the greatest beauty in the Empire—drew every eye. More than that, it was his unique aura, a presence that overwhelmed the room without him having to lift a finger.
He was the image of a mature man, a far cry from the precarious, drifting figure of his youth.
In her previous life, Blair had fallen in love at first sight when he returned to the victory banquet as an adult, though she had buried those feelings under a mountain of guilt. Now, living her second life, her heart still hammered when she saw him. Miserably so.
To ignore the sensation, she turned her gaze away. That was when a familiar face approached.
“Long time no see, Blair?”
Rachel Seldon.
The daughter of the Marquess—the late Emperor’s younger brother—and Blair’s cousin.
The moment she saw her, memories flooded back. She remembered what had happened on this day in her previous life, at this very banquet. Facing Rachel’s absurd, arrogant demands, the past Blair had been unable to utter a single word of protest.
To that younger, broken Blair, Rachel had been an absolute authority, just like Katrina. While Blair was recuperating from the Empress’s Palace fire, Rachel had seized control of the young social circle. By the time Blair had returned, she had almost no friends left. Rachel had groomed her into a state of reliance, treating her company like an act of charity. It had solidified into a habit that lasted well into their adulthood.
Though Blair had never given in to the worst of Rachel’s preposterous demands, the fact that she had never once fired a retort remained a source of searing self-loathing.
Blair gripped her wine glass, her eyes turning cold.
“Indeed. It has been a long time. Why didn’t you come to my wedding? I really wanted to receive your congratulations.”
Rachel’s expression twisted. Blair knew why. Since they were children, many young ladies had harbored crushes on Headrin, even while fearing the ominous tragedy of the Del Marc name. After he returned as a war hero, those crushes became blatant. Rachel had been one of them.
She must have felt bitter that Blair—the woman she deemed inferior—had secured the man she couldn’t.
Rachel smoothed her expression and answered.
“I really wanted to go, but I felt so unwell. This cold was quite nasty. It’s late, but congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you.”
Rachel grabbed a wine glass from a passing tray and stood beside Blair. As she surveyed the room, her gaze lingered on Headrin. He remained attractive, perhaps even more so now that he belonged to someone else.
Rachel looked at Blair over the rim of her glass.
“Does the Duke treat you well?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a relief. But don’t trust him too much. That man is the nephew of the woman who tried to kill you.”
Rachel spoke with feigned concern, aiming for Blair’s Achilles’ heel. But contrary to her expectation of a wounded reaction, Blair simply sipped her wine, her expression serene. Rachel was unsettled—this wasn’t the reaction she expected—but she remained confident. Blair had never defied her before.
“Anyway, with that face and that body, it’s worth the trouble of looking at him every day. Especially when there are so many positions as second wives to old men out there. Don’t you agree? I’d have no wishes left if I could just date a man like that once.”
“…….”
“So, that’s why, Blair.”
Rachel lowered her voice, shifting into a subtle tone.
“Couldn’t you lend me your husband for just one night? I’ll take care of the rest.”
Rachel requested it with the casual air of someone borrowing a toy. It was exactly like the old days, when she used to snatch away Blair’s trinkets.
*It’s not like I need your permission, but since it’s you, I’m telling you in advance…….*
She whispered as if being generous. She had already mapped out the rest of her plan. If Headrin was a man who harbored hostility toward the Empress Dowager’s family, surely he would choose a woman other than Blair, if only to spite them.
Blair set her empty glass down and fixed Rachel with an icy stare.
“You are vulgar, Rachel.”
“……What?”
“I’ll tell you since it seems you’ve forgotten: that man is my husband. And he is not an object to be lent out.”
Blair’s blunt refusal caused Rachel’s face to stiffen. This was a development not in her plans. Blair Sonnet Von Ardel had always been unable to defy her; it had been a given.
Rachel laughed, as if truly dumbfounded.
“So? You’re telling me not to touch him because he’s your husband?”
“That’s right. That was the conversation I wanted to have.”
Since a long time ago—one you will not remember.