After the last silver fork was set down and the final crumbs of breakfast cleared away, a maid in pristine uniform approached with a silent bow, bearing a silver tray of delicate porcelain teacups.
Rina reached for her cup slowly, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. The fragrant scent of jasmine and moonblossom rose gently into the air, but she didn't notice it.
Her gaze had gone distant.
*Last night.*
Her thoughts were no longer in the dining hall, but in the kitchen.
In that dimly-lit corner of the Rocchi estate where everything had spilled out of her—her hatred, her grief, her pride, and her fear.
She had screamed at him.
Threatened him.
Told him she'd never lie beside him.
Told him she loved someone else.
*And he…*
She glanced to her right.
Jin was seated quietly beside her, sipping his tea without a care in the world. The same lazy posture. The same slight grin. As if none of it had ever happened. As if he hadn't been the target of her furious monologue just hours before.
*And that look on his face…*
She remembered it clearly.
He had smiled.
Not in mockery—but in interest. As if she had amused him.
As if she were a puzzle he was beginning to enjoy solving.
And now, here he was. Calm. Poised. Sipping tea like an ordinary boy.
*Not like a noble.*
Not like someone raised in a mansion of obsidian under the gaze of the Silver Wolf herself.
She noticed the way he held his cup—not with the delicate grip of aristocracy, but casually, almost lazily. He sipped without the stiff posture expected from noble sons, without the precision.
He was out of place.
And yet… not uncomfortable.
Then, without warning, Jean stood.
He placed his cup gently on the table, didn't say a word, and turned to leave.
Naoko didn't look up. Didn't stop him. Didn't ask where he was going.
She simply lifted her cup and continued sipping, unbothered. As if this were nothing out of the ordinary.
Rina followed him with her eyes until he disappeared through the tall double doors.
*His steps... his movements… they're the same as last night.*
The same rhythm. The same silent ease.
*That's really him,* she thought, her chest tightening. *That boy in the kitchen… that was Jean Rocchi.*
The son of Naoko.
Her future husband.
She sipped her tea, the warmth barely reaching her lips.
Beside her, Leona seemed thoughtful. Across from them, Amelia's golden eyes didn't leave Naoko.
Then she asked, "Naoko," her voice polite but edged with steel, "why doesn't your son eat like a nobleman? His posture, his etiquette—they're… unconventional."
Naoko glanced at her, a faint trace of amusement in her silver eyes. Then, slowly, her gaze drifted over to Rina and Leona, as if weighing whether to answer.
"He wasn't raised like other noble sons," she said at last, her voice calm, steady. "His education was custom. Tailored. I didn't see the need to instill empty rituals."
"But table manners are not rituals," Amelia replied, a spark in her tone. "They're marks of discipline. Of refinement."
Naoko tilted her head, lips curling faintly. "And tell me, Amelia… do you believe refinement can stop a sword? Or command a beast?"
Silence.
Naoko took another sip of her tea, her silver hair gleaming like strands of moonlight.
Amelia narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing.
Then, unexpectedly, Leona spoke. Her voice was hesitant, but clear.
"Has Jean… ever dated a girl?"
The question seemed to hang in the air—out of place, unexpected, bold.
Naoko turned her gaze to Leona slowly.
For a long moment, she didn't answer.
Then, her voice came—cool as ever, but tinged with something harder to place.
"What do you think?"
Leona blinked. "I—"
"You think he's the type to fall in love with a girl? To chase her like a storybook knight?" Naoko asked, calmly setting her cup down.
Leona said nothing.
Naoko leaned back slightly.
"I told you. He never left this estate. Not once. And you—" her eyes moved between Leona, Rina, and Amelia, "—you three are the first women he's met from outside these walls."
Leona's expression faltered.
"The only women who've been near him are the maids… and my assistant, Sion."
She said it as if it were a fact of weather. Dry. Cold. Absolute.
Rina felt something twist in her stomach.
*So he's never had anyone. Never touched another. Never even looked at someone the way boys do when they fall in love.*
A strange emotion flickered through her chest—something between guilt and…
*Jealousy?*
No.
She pushed the thought away and gripped her teacup a little tighter.
The conversation moved on, but Rina remained still, her mind spiraling with thoughts, with memories, with the weight of what had just been said.
*He's untouched.*
*And now… he's mine.*
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