The moon hung high, casting silver light across the quiet halls of Faolinshire Manor. The grand dinner had ended, but the storm it had stirred was just beginning to rise.
Brooklyn gently guided Catherine through the dim corridor, his hand supporting her back as they walked in silence toward his chambers. The echo of their steps on the marble floor was oddly comforting.
Once inside, he shut the door softly behind them.
The room was warm, with the fireplace flickering low. Soft velvet drapes fluttered with the breeze. Catherine sat down on the couch beside the hearth, the flames dancing in her eyes.
Brooklyn knelt in front of her, taking her hand gently.
"Did she hurt you with her words?" he asked softly.
Catherine shook her head slowly, though her eyes were distant. "They don't hurt the same way anymore. Not when I have someone like you beside me."
He brushed his thumb against her knuckles, gaze intense. "I won't let her or anyone else belittle you again. Ever."
Catherine's cheeks flushed faintly. "I know."
He exhaled, letting his forehead rest lightly against her hand. "You have no idea what you mean to me now…"
She smiled gently, brushing his hair away from his eyes. "You've already given me more than I ever dreamed I'd have."
They sat like that—silent, close, at peace.
—
Elsewhere in the manor, behind closed doors, Damien leaned casually against the edge of a table in the drawing room, swirling wine in a crystal glass. Across from him, Christiana stood near the window, arms folded, lips pursed in a mix of fury and confusion.
"So," Damien drawled, "you had your moment to shine… and yet your sister arrived, stole the silence, and now you look as if you've eaten sour grapes."
Christiana's violet eyes narrowed. "Luciane was never supposed to come. She detests these politics. Why now?"
Damien smirked. "Perhaps she sees something in Catherine. Or something you failed to see."
"She's broken. She shouldn't matter," Christiana hissed. "And yet he looks at her like she's the moon itself."
Damien took a sip of wine, eyes gleaming. "Then maybe your problem isn't Catherine."
She turned sharply. "What do you mean?"
His voice dropped, seductive and cruel. "Maybe your problem is that Catherine reminds Brooklyn what it feels like to be human. And maybe you remind him why he left society in the first place."
Christiana glared, lips pressed tight. "He will be mine. No matter what I have to do."
Damien raised his glass lazily. "Well, dear Christiana, I do love a good show. Just don't forget… I'm not your pawn. I'm just here to play."
—
In another corner of the estate, Luciane sat on a cushioned bench in the guest salon, a candle flickering on the side table. Sebastian stood nearby, arms crossed, his brows drawn in concern.
"You came without warning," he said.
"I had no choice," Luciane replied calmly. "I received a letter. From someone anonymous. About Catherine."
Sebastian's eyes sharpened. "You believe it?"
"I saw enough tonight to confirm it," Luciane replied. "The girl is no threat. She's a survivor. And Christiana… she's lost her sense of restraint."
Sebastian stepped closer. "She'll hurt Catherine if she sees her slipping away from the spotlight."
"She already tried," Luciane said. "With words. But next time, it may not be just words."
Sebastian nodded grimly. "And Damien?"
Luciane's eyes darkened. "A dangerous man, if amused. But never loyal."
"Then it's time," Sebastian said. "Brooklyn can't fight this alone. He's been alone long enough."
Luciane looked toward the window where the moonlight spilled in.
"She needs protection," she whispered. "And I intend to give it to her."
Outside, the wind stirred the leaves.
Inside, pieces moved quietly across the board.
The game had truly begun.
The sky above Faolinshire burned a soft orange as the sun lowered behind distant hills, casting a warm glow over the sprawling gardens. Birds sang their last tunes before dusk, and the scent of roses drifted through the evening air.
Far from the manor, hidden beneath the arch of weeping willows, Catherine sat on the cold stone bench. Her gown fluttered around her like crimson leaves caught in wind, but her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the seat.
Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, falling to the grass below like raindrops. She pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling the sound. She didn't want anyone to hear. No one needed to know—not even him.
Her thoughts twisted like vines, tight around her chest.
Why does everyone hate me…?
Why does their gaze always burn… like I'm something unclean?
I didn't choose to survive. I didn't choose to live while my parents…
Why does Christiana look at me like I've stolen something from her?
Why does Damien smirk as if I'm a joke? Why does he enjoy my discomfort?
I try to be quiet, invisible. I try not to disturb. I try to be useful. But it's never enough.
Maybe I'm still that broken girl… maybe I always will be…
She buried her face into her hands, sobbing quietly now, shoulders shaking. The soft sound of footfalls on the gravel path didn't reach her ears until they were very near.
"Catherine."
She froze.
Lifting her tear-streaked face slowly, she blinked through the blur and saw Luciane Alorsbuth standing in front of her. Graceful, calm, and poised as always—but her eyes… they were warm. Not sharp like Christiana's. Not cold like Damien's.
Luciane said nothing at first. She stepped forward, knelt carefully beside the bench, and without hesitation, reached out and gently patted Catherine's head.
Catherine flinched at first—out of instinct—but then her body relaxed, breath hitching as warmth spread through her chest.
Luciane's voice was quiet. "You've been holding too much inside again."
"I… I didn't want anyone to see," Catherine whispered, ashamed.
"And yet, here you are. Seen." Luciane's fingers threaded through her hair gently, like an older sister might. "You are allowed to cry, Catherine. You are allowed to feel. That does not make you weak."
"But they hate me…" Catherine breathed. "All of them. I can see it. In their eyes. I didn't do anything, and still they look at me like I'm poison."
Luciane sat beside her now, her arm resting around her shoulders. "That hatred… it isn't yours to carry. It belongs to them—to their pride, their fear, their envy. Let it stay with them."
Catherine looked down. "I just want peace. A simple life. I never asked for this war."
"I know." Luciane exhaled, glancing toward the sunset. "But sometimes peace is a thing we must build with our own hands. One person, one moment at a time."
She looked back at Catherine, her tone firmer. "And if they try to take that peace from you… I will be standing between you and them. Understand?"
Catherine blinked. The tears didn't stop—but they changed. Slower now. Warmer.
She nodded silently.
"Good girl," Luciane whispered, patting her head once more. "Now come. Let's get you inside. There's tea waiting. And if not… I'll make it myself."
Catherine gave a watery laugh at that.
And for the first time in many days, the dusk didn't feel so heavy.
It was an overcast afternoon when Duke Brooklyn Harperwood departed Faolinshire Estate for the neighboring province, accompanied only by Anderson for a discreet meeting with the northern council. The absence of the household's towering presence left the manor unusually quiet—and vulnerable.
That same evening, in a corridor rarely used by most staff, Catherine was walking alone. The warmth Brooklyn had wrapped her in for weeks was still around her like a fragile coat. But that peace would not last.
She had just turned a corner when Damien appeared, flashing his usual mocking grin.
"Oh? Walking alone, dear Catherine?" His voice oozed with false charm.
Before she could retreat, Christiana emerged from the other side, her violet eyes sharp and unreadable. She wore an elegant smirk.
"You really should be more careful, darling. Accidents happen in large estates," Christiana murmured, voice honeyed with cruelty.
Catherine tried to move past them. "Please... I don't want trouble."
"Oh, don't worry," Damien replied, pushing a heavy wooden door open behind her, "Neither do we."
Without warning, the two shoved her into the chamber.
The door slammed shut with a loud thud, the lock clicking heavily into place.
"Oops," Christiana called sweetly from the other side. "Must've been a mistake. Don't worry, someone will come."
Their footsteps faded down the corridor.
Catherine staggered back, her hands trembling as she turned and beat softly against the door. "Please… please let me out…"
Silence.
The room was dark, with only a small sliver of light peeking through a high, barred window. No furniture. No warmth. Just the cold, dusty air and a sharp draft curling along the floor.
She slid down against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. Hours passed. The sunlight dimmed into dusk. Then darkness.
No one came.
She could hear the sounds of the estate continuing: distant chatter, carriages pulling in, the rustling of trees outside. The world moved on—without her.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
Why...? Why is it always me?
I didn't even speak to them. I didn't do anything.
Why do they hate me so much?
I just wanted to read today. I just wanted peace...
Her fingers gripped her arms tightly, trying to fight the trembling in her chest. Her breaths were sharp and shallow. It was too much.
Then—finally—voices outside the door.
Muffled. Urgent. Then a sharp click.
The door creaked open, and warm light poured in.
"Catherine!" Luciane's voice rang out.
Sebastian pushed the door fully open, eyes dark with fury. "Those bastards."
But Catherine didn't hear much of it.
She looked up at Luciane with wide, tear-glazed eyes. The moment she saw her—
"L-Luciane…" she whispered hoarsely.
Luciane rushed forward and dropped to her knees.
Catherine launched into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably, her small frame shivering.
Luciane embraced her tightly, stroking her hair. "It's alright now. I've got you. I've got you…"
"I-I didn't… do anything… why would they…" she cried.
"You don't need to say anything," Luciane whispered. "You're safe now. That's all that matters."
Behind them, Sebastian clenched his fists, jaw tight.
This wasn't just mischief.
It was war.
And Catherine… was not alone anymore.
Catherine's tears continued to flow, her fragile body trembling in Luciane's arms. The stone floor beneath them was cold, but none of it mattered to her. All she could feel was the ugly weight in her chest, pressing harder with every breath, every memory.
Luciane gently stroked her back, whispering soft reassurances. "You're safe, little one… you're not alone anymore…"
But Catherine shook her head, burying her face deeper into Luciane's shoulder.
I hate this… I hate this weakness… I hate being so pathetic… I can't even protect myself.
Why am I always the one they hurt? Why can't I just disappear?
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…" she whispered between sobs, her voice breaking. "I didn't do anything… but they still hate me. I must be so… disgusting…"
Luciane pulled back just enough to cradle her face in her hands. "Don't you ever say that again. You're not disgusting, Catherine. You're a girl who has been hurt. That's not your fault. Do you hear me?"
But Catherine couldn't meet her eyes.
She looked away, shaking. Her voice was hoarse now. "Please… don't tell Brooklyn."
Luciane paused. "…Why?"
"Because…" Catherine's lips trembled as she forced the words out. "If he knows… he'll be angry. I know he will. And he'll do something terrible to them. And then they'll try to hurt him. He's already hated by people for being cold… I don't want to be the reason they hate him more…"
Luciane's brows tightened with quiet pain. "But you were locked away, humiliated. This isn't something you should carry alone."
"I don't mind carrying it," Catherine whispered. "I've carried worse. This is nothing compared to what they used to do…"
Her eyes were wet again.
"…But Brooklyn… he's the only one who's ever made me feel safe. Warm. Like I'm not just a broken object. I just… want to stay by his side. Even if I have to suffer again. I'll take it all… as long as I can still see him smile."
Luciane was silent for a long moment.
She wiped the tears from Catherine's cheeks with gentle thumbs and pulled her close again. "You really love him that much, don't you?"
"I don't even know if I'm allowed to call it love," she whispered. "I don't deserve him."
"Yes, you do," Luciane said firmly. "More than anyone else."
"But please," Catherine looked up at her, eyes pleading, "don't tell him. I'm fine. I swear. Just… let me stay beside him. That's all I want."
Luciane closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I won't tell him. But… if they try anything like this again, I will. And I won't wait five hours next time."
Catherine smiled faintly through her pain. "Thank you…"
Luciane stood up, brushing dust from her skirt. Then she extended her hand.
"Come on. Let's go back. Brooklyn will worry if he doesn't see you before he returns."
Catherine took her hand with a weak but grateful nod. Her legs were unsteady, but Luciane supported her as they walked.
And as they returned, she clutched her pendant—Brooklyn's bracelet—close to her heart.
Just let me stay near him… please… that's all I want in this life.
The night air was soft and cool, brushing gently across the garden's fragrant roses and tulips. Moonlight spilled down in gentle streaks, casting silvery shadows through the hedges and trees. Catherine sat alone on the stone bench beneath the white archway of vines. Her delicate fingers fidgeted with the bracelet around her wrist—Brooklyn's gift. The cold metal was warm now, worn from constant touch, her comfort charm.
Her thoughts wandered, silent and heavy.
He'll be back by now... I should've smiled when I saw him... I should've acted like nothing happened…
She bit her lip softly, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes, though no longer weeping, still carried a faint redness. She had carefully dabbed them dry, brushed her hair to cover the puffiness, even practiced smiling before the mirror. And yet—
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Familiar.
She froze a little but didn't look up until his voice broke the quiet.
"Why are you here alone?"
Brooklyn.
She turned slightly and smiled gently. "Just needed some air…"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked to the edge of the fountain, his amber eyes watching her from a short distance. The night wind rustled his cloak as he stepped closer and finally sat beside her.
His gaze, heavy and perceptive, lingered on her face.
"You cried today," he said plainly.
She stiffened. "N-No, I…"
"Don't lie," he cut in softly.
Her voice fell silent.
He turned toward her and, gently, reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. His hand lingered for a moment before settling on her head.
"You hide it well," he murmured. "But your eyes give you away. I see it."
She blinked, looking down instantly.
"I… I'm fine," she whispered, forcing her voice to stay calm. "It's nothing."
"Even if it's nothing," Brooklyn said, his tone warm but firm, "you can still tell me."
Her chest tightened.
"I won't force you," he continued. "But don't ever feel like you need to carry pain by yourself. You've done that for too long, haven't you?"
Catherine swallowed hard. Her eyes burned again, but she bit back the tears.
"You're not alone anymore," he added.
He gently patted her head again. His touch was comforting. Reassuring.
"Goodnight, Catherine," he said at last, standing.
She looked up, startled. "You're… leaving?"
He gave her a small, tired smile. "Only to give you time. You'll tell me when you're ready."
And with that, he turned and walked away under the stars, his figure disappearing behind the hedges.
Catherine sat frozen for a moment, then looked down at her hands again.
The warmth of his hand still lingered on her head.
He knew… even though I said nothing…
Her smile trembled softly.
How does he always see through me like that?
And beneath the moonlight, for the first time since that horrible day, she let her shoulders relax, knowing that maybe… just maybe… she wouldn't have to hide forever.
Sunlight filtered softly through the silken curtains of Catherine's room, casting a faint golden warmth across the polished wooden floor. The garden's distant birdsong drifted in through the windows, but inside her room, all was still and quiet.
She sat curled in the corner of her chaise, dressed in a simple white gown, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in gentle waves, unbrushed, as though she hadn't cared for it that morning. The book by her side remained untouched. Breakfast on the table had grown cold.
She simply… didn't want to leave.
There was a hollow kind of silence in her chest. No pain, no tears. Just an overwhelming stillness. Like the ghost of something sad that never fully leaves.
I smiled last night… because he was there.
But when he left… the loneliness returned.
I shouldn't be like this. I should be grateful. Stronger. He's already done so much. But then why… why does it still hurt?
A soft knock at the door.
She didn't answer.
A pause.
And then the door creaked open.
Brooklyn stepped in—dressed sharply in his usual tailored dark vest and cloak, with that quiet, composed demeanor that always wrapped around him like armor. In his hands was a rectangular object, carefully wrapped in rich navy-blue cloth, bound with a silver ribbon.
He didn't say anything. He simply walked toward her and knelt beside the chaise.
Catherine blinked, slowly raising her head.
"Good morning," he said gently, placing the object down before her.
She looked at it. Her voice caught in her throat. "What… is it?"
"Something I found," he said, "for you."
She hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached forward. Slowly, cautiously, she pulled on the silver ribbon, and then unwrapped the cloth.
The second her eyes fell upon what lay beneath, her hands flew to her mouth.
It was a framed portrait.
Of her parents.
Painted masterfully, in soft, noble brushstrokes—the Queen in a graceful lavender gown, her kind eyes glowing with warmth; the King standing tall, his smile serene. Between them, a younger version of Catherine stood—barely five or six years old—clutching both their hands, her little cheeks puffed in joy.
Her breath shattered.
She couldn't hold it.
A sob burst from her throat, sudden and unrestrained. The portrait slipped from her lap onto the bed as her hands flew to cover her face, tears pouring in silent streams down her cheeks.
Brooklyn didn't move at first. He simply watched her—his gaze deep and steady—as she folded into herself, body trembling.
"I…" she choked. "I thought I'd never see them again…"
Her voice cracked.
"I forgot her eyes… I forgot how he smiled… I forgot… I was forgetting them, Brooklyn…"
She wept harder.
"I hated myself for forgetting."
Brooklyn gently reached out and placed a hand on her back. "I searched for weeks," he said softly. "Through burnt records, old archives, lost collections. It took time, but I found it… hidden away in an old estate in the South."
She looked at him through tear-blurred eyes, overwhelmed.
"Why…?" she whispered. "Why do all this for me…?"
He didn't answer at first. Instead, he leaned closer and picked up the portrait, setting it upright on the nightstand where sunlight kissed its surface.
"I just wanted you to remember that you came from love," he said finally. "You weren't born into suffering. And you won't end in it either."
She stared at him, completely undone.
His amber eyes met hers.
"I'll never replace them," he said. "But I can promise you this, Catherine. From this day forward, I'll give you a life where you'll never have to forget love again."
Tears streamed down her cheeks silently now—