Chapter 20
‘Is he sick?’
The moment the thought crossed her mind, Cecile felt her heart sink.
Then, a faint voice reached her ears.
“Elizabeth…”
The voice sounded so pained, so fragile it was hard to believe it had come from the Duke himself.
Hearing it, Cecile recalled something she had once heard about him.
“The Duke of Bartholomew lost his beloved wife and child at the same time, three years ago.”
And then she realized—
“Elizabeth… that must be the name of the Duke’s late wife.”
Without meaning to, Cecile took a step toward him. As she approached, she noticed a small frame in his hand.
It was a portrait of the Duke and a beautiful woman. The woman had long, wavy, straw-colored hair and mysterious violet eyes, and her expression radiated gentleness.
But what stood out most in the painting was the Duke’s smile. It was faint, but Cecile had rarely, if ever, seen him smile like that.
It wasn’t a forced smile either. He looked truly happy beside her.
Yet just a glance away from that happy moment, there was the real Duke—writhing in pain.
He had lost the other half of his soul, the one he believed he would spend his life with, far too soon. Even if someone were to cut off half his body, it wouldn’t hurt this much.
“I thought he was doing better lately… but I was wrong.”
Cecile was stunned.
“He’s been enduring it all this time. Always… always hiding his pain from everyone…”
She had always been good with words.
In particular, she had a knack for sweet-talking those who were in pain. Offering one comforting, honeyed phrase to someone hurting was, for her, one of the easiest things in the world.
But at this moment, none of that came to her.
Lying was usually effortless—she could do it without batting an eye. But right now, she didn’t want to lie to him.
While Cecile hesitated, he spoke first.
“…Forgive me for showing you such a disgraceful sight.”
The Duke slowly rose to his feet. His voice was rougher than usual, and the light from the nearby lamp revealed that his eyes were red.
Cecile shook her head.
“No, I should be the one apologizing. I barged in without permission… I thought you might be ill.”
The Duke didn’t respond.
He didn’t look directly at her either. His profile looked utterly exhausted.
Seeing this side of him—so unlike the man she had known—filled Cecile with unexpected sympathy.
“What am I thinking? Feeling sorry for him? Have I lost my mind? I need to remember what he did to me in my past life. He murdered me.”
She told herself firmly.
“I have to stay sharp. I can’t let this opportunity go to waste. I have to gain his favor, no matter what it takes.”
She steeled herself and opened her mouth.
“…Is that your wife? She’s very beautiful.”
The Duke lowered his head briefly, then lifted it to look directly at her.
“It’s late. You should return to your room.”
“But…”
“I appreciate your attempt to comfort me.”
He glanced at the frame and bit his lip. Then, he turned the frame face-down, hiding the image from view.
“You are a guest, Cecile. You shouldn’t have to concern yourself with the pitiful memories of the Duke of Bartholomew.”
With that, he rubbed his face with both hands.
“So please, forget what you saw tonight. I’ll only show you my proper self from now on.”
Cecile protested.
“What is a ‘proper self’? And what’s so disgraceful about being in pain? Are adults not allowed to be sad?”
“Adults can be sad. But the master of House Bartholomew cannot. I have too many things I must carry. The family, the land, its people, the organization… All of those weigh more than my own life.”
The Duke let out a short, bitter breath. It almost sounded like he had spit poison.
“That’s why I’m asking you to forget. If word spreads that the Duke of Bartholomew has lost his composure, it will be dangerous. People will lose faith in me. It would become a fatal weakness.”
A man hiding immense sorrow. And with it, an equally immense burden of responsibility.
The Duke of Bartholomew—called the empire’s most notorious villain—was strong, but even for someone like him, what he carried was far too heavy.
Thinking of how he had borne all that alone, struggling to endure, Cecile felt suffocated.
“You must have a lot to protect… because you’re someone so important.”
“…”
“But you always talk about your duties. Not once have you said anything about how you feel.”
Cecile sighed. Then she did something that completely stunned the Duke.
She stepped forward and hugged him.
He let out a small, startled gasp—as if the thought that she might do such a thing had never occurred to him.
Cecile wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his dark hair, and whispered softly.
“I understand. You have a lot of responsibilities. Your position demands that of you. And you’ve worked so hard to protect it all. But still…”
Her voice trembled.
“Who takes care of your heart? Who knows how much it hurts?”
While no one saw, his wounded heart had festered for years. Who had ever embraced that?
Cecile swallowed a sigh. If her words had been a false comfort with no real feeling behind them, she would’ve done far better.
But strangely, she couldn’t bring herself to lie.
She genuinely felt sorry for him. Her heart ached for the old wound hidden behind his strong, fearsome exterior.
“It’s not that I like him. I still hate him, and I’m still scared. I can’t forgive the man who killed me.”
She thought as she held him tightly.
“Even so, I pity him. I wish he hadn’t really been the one who killed me. Then maybe… I could’ve comforted him properly, told him everything I wanted to say.”
Her body was far too small, her arms too short to fully embrace him. It looked more like she was clinging to him than offering a proper hug.
“If that were the case… maybe I really would’ve come to like him.”
Cecile hoped her warmth would reach him.
Because she hated him, because she couldn’t forgive him—and yet because she genuinely felt for him.
She hoped all the unspoken comfort she couldn’t put into words would be conveyed through her touch.
After giving him one last squeeze, she finally let go.
The Duke still wore a look of disbelief on his tired, pale face.
Cecile let out a breath and lifted the hem of her nightgown in a polite curtsy.
“If I overstepped, I’m sorry. I once heard that… sometimes this helps when someone is hurting.”
The Duke stared into space, face still tense, then slowly shook his head.
“No. You did nothing wrong, Cecile. It’s just that I…”
He rubbed his face again, unable to continue.
“Well, he’s a grown man. It can’t feel great to be comforted by an eight-year-old. He’s probably embarrassed. Or it’s a blow to his pride.”
Cecile, who prided herself on never showing weakness, completely understood how he must feel.
Even though they were enemies, she and the Duke shared this trait in common.
“It’s time to give him some space. He probably needs time to collect himself.”
She curtsied once more and bowed her head.
“Then I’ll take my leave. I hope you have a good dream.”
“…”
The Duke said nothing, deep in thought. Cecile took his silence as consent and walked toward the door.
Just before she stepped out—
“Your Grace!”
Startled, the Duke turned around.
“I think… it’s perfectly fine for you to cry, or get angry, or feel embarrassed. You’re still cool to me.”
And with that, Cecile gave him a smile—one that was genuinely, heartbreakingly lovely.
