Rina barely tasted the last bite of her breakfast. The luxurious table, the golden plates, the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off crystal glasses—none of it registered.
Her thoughts churned. The tea in her cup had long gone cold, untouched.
*Why did I say all that last night? Why did I talk to him at all? Why didn't I ask for his name?*
And most damning of all—
*Why… why did I tell him I wished Jean Roché were dead?*
Her fingers curled tightly around the silver fork, the prongs trembling ever so slightly.
She could still feel the memory of the kitchen, of fire dancing along her skin, of her own fury boiling over. She had let it all out—her anger, her grief, her frustration. She had spoken freely, not knowing she was being watched, listened to... *by him.*
. Acreak.
The dining hall's grand double doors opened.
All three women turned.
And there he was.
He stepped into the morning light like a shadow made flesh.
Black shirt, black trousers, black leather boots with golden threading tracing the edges like a spell. His raven-black hair was tousled yet elegant, a white towel draped lazily around his neck. His red eyes—*Gods*, those eyes—gleamed with amused mischief, twin flames dancing behind dark lashes. He looked like a painting. A sculpture. A dream carved out of moonless nights and smirking devils.
Rina's breath hitched in her throat.
*No.*
It couldn't be.
But it was.
*Him.*
The boy from last night. The one who'd spoken to her in the dark. The one who'd teased her, pushed her, smiled at her like he could see right through her soul.
And now… he was *Jean Roché.*
She froze, unable to even blink.
Her mother's eyes narrowed slightly. Not from shock—Amelia Amberhart never allowed herself such weakness—but from cold calculation. Leona's lips parted just a fraction, a flicker of surprise passing over her normally composed features.
Naoko, in contrast, simply gestured with one slender hand.
"jin," she said, her voice calm, unwavering. "Come. Greet our guests."
He moved like someone who knew every eye belonged to him. No slouch in his shoulders, no awkward pause. He didn't bow. Didn't lower his head. He just walked forward, graceful and unapologetic, until he stood across from the three girls.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Amelia. A polite nod.
And then to Rina.
Her heart thudded against her ribs. She couldn't meet his eyes. Not after everything she'd said. *Not after the death wish.*
She stared at the table. At the salt shaker. At the napkin.
Anywhere but his face.
But then—his voice.
Soft. Smooth. Familiar in the worst possible way.
"Good morning, Lady Rina," he said gently.
And then—
"I'm sorry. Did I disappoint you by not being fat, as you claimed last night?"
He smiled.
It was radiant.
Playful.
Cruel.
Her entire face burned.
Leona turned toward her in stunned silence, but Jean wasn't done.
"I was really looking forward to being incinerated," he added, tilting his head slightly, his crimson eyes shimmering with delight. "Would you still like to burn me? I'll stand still this time. Promise."
Rina wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
*He knew. He heard everything. Everything.*
The words she'd spoken—*I hate him. I want him dead. I love someone else*—they were daggers now, and he was twisting them with a smile.
She finally looked up, just for a moment.
And he was still smiling.
Not cruelly.
Just... entertained.
Like she was his favorite book, and he couldn't wait to turn the page.
jin turned then, his gaze sliding toward Leona.
He blinked. A brief moment of confusion crossed his face.
"…And who are you?" he asked, brows lifting slightly, though the smile never left his lips.
Leona, ever composed, straightened her posture and met his gaze head-on.
But Rina barely noticed.
Her thoughts were a hurricane. Her breath uneven. Her chest tight.
The worst part wasn't that he had heard her insults.
It was that he *wasn't angry.*
He was *enjoying this.*