Chapter 1
The bell tolled.
A solemn sound that marked the beginning of a funeral.
The doors of the chapel burst open, and a cold winter wind rushed in. Cold air swirled, scattering the pale lavender sprigs that had filled the space.
The echo of polished shoes struck in time with the bell.
Killian walked between the empty pews toward the pristine casket placed before the faded stained glass.
Before him, already standing with perfect posture, was the man who had stolen Killian’s wife forever: Arthur Ainsworth.
Arthur’s golden hair was slicked back neatly, and over his black suit he wore a frock coat, impeccable as ever. His eyes, calm and composed, regarded the portrait of the deceased as if admiring a painting.
When Killian’s fierce gaze pierced him, Arthur tilted his head slightly, quietly returning the look. Their eyes—both blue, yet different shades—met above the casket.
“A pathetic funeral,” Arthur murmured, lips curling slowly. He turned his gaze back toward the chapel.
It was indeed a sparse funeral. The flowers, carefully chosen by the departed herself, the slow tolling of the bell, the mere two mourners present—it was too modest for her send-off. Yet somehow, that made it all the more unreal.
Rowena Bernier was dead.
The woman who had been Killian’s wife, the first love Arthur had ever confessed to, had left them forever.
She had arranged her own funeral and left instructions for Killian and Arthur to announce her passing, taking her own life willingly.
What had driven Rowena to death?
Before that question, the two men stared at each other with a fierce intensity, demanding an answer from one another.
“You said you’d cherish her,” Killian broke the silence first.
“You said noble blood must remain in noble places.”
His voice cracked roughly, and the sleeve of his crumpled shirt trembled slightly with the force of his grip. Without even a proper coat or tailored jacket, he stepped forward as if he could strangle Arthur on the spot.
“Is this the noble place you promised? An empty chapel?”
“Ridiculous, Killian Vale.” Arthur tilted his head but did not back away.
“Rowena died because of you.”
His black-gloved hand gripped the golden handle of his cane tightly.
“You ruined her family, buried her father, destroyed her life. You sold every shred of conscience you had, didn’t you?”
“Ainsworth…!”
“You know, Vale?” Arthur exhaled a low, almost bitter laugh. A dry, precarious smile appeared at the corner of his lips.
“The child in her womb… it was yours.”
“…What?” Killian froze, as if struck by a cane to the head.
“It was your filthy bloodline that deserved to be erased.”
Dong—dong—dong.
The bell tolled again.
The pale lavender petals Rowena had loved drifted down, scattering like dust across the chapel floor.
Who had driven Rowena to her death?
The smooth surface of the casket reflected only the two men’s faces.
It was a chaotic era. Like Neanderthals and Homo sapiens coexisting, the old and new worlds—people, culture, values—clashed at every moment.
In a world where everyone raced against time, Rowena Bernier was always a beat behind.
She had been born long past her due date, struggled to speak and walk later than other children, and even expressing simple joy or sorrow came awkwardly. Visitors who came upon her family quickly lost interest and left.
Her older sister, Viola, was the opposite. Beautiful, social, and quick to learn, she drew attention everywhere. People always loved Viola; even their parents were no exception.
Yet, there was someone who loved Rowena for who she was.
Killian Vale.
In an age where capital outweighed bloodlines, he was regarded as the most flawless husband imaginable.
While everyone’s eyes were drawn to Viola, he offered flowers to Rowena instead—and Rowena, as if by fate, fell in love.
In the summer of 1912, Rowena Bernier became Rowena Vale. It was a marriage that sent ripples through the entire Kingdom of Luen.
Some said that with the history of Bernier joining hands with the wealth of Vale, only a brilliant future lay ahead of them.
For a time, she, too, had harbored similar hopes.
“I met a reporter today.”
At Rowena’s quiet words, Killian’s knife came to a halt. He had been slicing a meat pie with elegant precision; slowly, he lifted his head to look at her.
“…I hadn’t heard anything about that.”
His voice was dry, cold to the bone.
When had it begun? She did not know the exact moment, but after their marriage his attitude had grown visibly colder.
He must just be busy with work. Once things settle down, it’ll be better.
Clinging to that thought, Rowena waited for the day he would return to the man he once was.
Foolishly so.
“He said that Father’s reckless investments, the assets taken as collateral and sold off for next to nothing, and the way Father was driven to his death…”
The Bernier County—proud of its noble lineage spanning centuries—collapsed in mere months after a single change in a railway route.
The vineyards that once shimmered in the sunlight, the forests filled only with the sound of wind, the estate where nobles held summer banquets and recited poetry—all of it was transferred to another’s hands, bound up in just a few sheets of paper.
And a week ago, Count Bernier took his own life.
“He said it was your doing.”
Killian set the knife down with an indifferent expression. From the cross-section of the meat pie on the white plate, dark red juices seeped out.
“…Is it true?”
The end of Rowena’s voice trembled.
It had to be a lie.
As the world believed, he was supposed to be the benevolent son-in-law who bought the Bernier estate for his ruined in-laws and declared he would take responsibility for her pitiful mother and sister as well.
The reporter’s words had to be nothing more than delusion, and even doubting him like this should have been an insult.
She wanted him to say so.
But with a single sentence, her husband shattered all her expectations.
“Yes. It’s true.”
Killian picked up the knife again. His face remained calm as he mercilessly cut through the red meat.
“Why?”
“Because it was profitable.”
Rowena Vale, who had always been slow at everything, was even slow to recognize betrayal.
So it was not when she learned that her husband had destroyed her family, but when he admitted—without the slightest concern for her despair—that he had done it willingly for money, that she finally understood.
“…You don’t love me.”
Killian Vale does not love Rowena.
Everything she had failed to understand now fell into place: the way he avoided her under the excuse of being busy, his reluctance to attend parties with her, his cold, indifferent tone.
It was all because he did not love her.
“Was it like this from the beginning? Or did you change, for some reason?”
He exhaled deeply and lowered his hand. The sharp clatter of knife against plate made her shoulders flinch.
“Think whatever you wish.”
“……”
“The times have changed, madam. The world no longer runs on bloodlines or honor, but on capital. What protects me is not tradition or etiquette, but the money and information I hold.”
Rowena bit her lip hard.
At the edge of her blurred vision lay the mangled meat pie.
“But as you are now…”
A pie baked with various meats—pheasant, venison, rabbit.
For a moment, it seemed as though her father’s flesh were mixed in among them.
“…you are ignorant to a disgusting degree.”
Her heart pounded irregularly beneath her pale skin. After several shallow breaths, Rowena finally spoke again.
“…I understand.”
The day he had offered flowers to her instead of Viola, Rowena had believed it was love.
“I understand now… truly.”
But now she knew. What he had held in his hand that day was not a flower, but a ledger.
Accepting that truth was unbearably painful.
Yet this was a moment she could no longer avoid.
“You know, Killian. There was something I wanted to say to you today. Something you might have found tedious to hear, but that I felt I had to say.”
“……”
“But now, I don’t think there’s any need.”
Rowena lifted her head again and met his gaze. With a faint smile, she declared quietly,
“Let’s divorce.”
For the first time, a flicker of agitation crossed Killian’s otherwise composed face. Between his jet-black hair, his dark brows twitched slightly.
“There are words one may utter lightly—and words one must not.”
“Did it sound light to you? How amusing. It took me a great deal of effort to say it.”
“Rowena Vale.”
The end of his voice trembled with anger. Rowena could not understand that expression at all.
“You destroyed my family. My home. My loved ones. You destroyed me. I cannot spend eternity with someone like you.”
“You’re the one saying something absurd. You know it, don’t you? They never considered you family. In that household, you were nothing but an impurity floating in a well-aged bottle of wine. Isn’t that right?”
“Don’t insult my family.”
Bang—
A heavy sound tore through the dining room as his fist slammed onto the table.
The lavish dishes and silverware rattled noisily. Cranberry sauce beside the meat pie spilled over the edge of its dish, staining the white tablecloth with a sticky red smear.
“Your home is here. Ravenhill.”
Killian exhaled harshly. His blue eyes, once indifferent, now gleamed like those of a beast on the verge of a hunt.
“The only person you may call family is me—Killian Vale.”
“……”
“And if the problem is that the two of us feel lonely, perhaps we should have a child. Given how often we’ve shared a bed with no news until now, I’m starting to wonder whether it’s even possible.”
Heat rushed to Rowena’s face. Her green eyes grew wet, as if tears might spill at any moment.
“…Enough with such childish remarks. I’ll excuse myself now. You’ve utterly ruined my appetite.”
Killian shot her a sharp glare and stood, pushing his chair back.
No matter how busy he was, Sunday dinners were always shared, and it was an unspoken rule between them to remain seated until dessert was served.
But now, such rules meant nothing at all.
