I pretended to browse through the small hotel souvenir shop, drifting between shelves as though I were just killing time. In reality, every step, every pivot of my body was carefully angled so I could stay near the counter without drawing suspicion. My head was bent over my phone, the screen's glow reflecting faintly in the glass of a display case—but my ears were wide open.
A tiny bunny-eared sticker hovered comically above my shoulder in my imagination: "OH MY! I NEED TO LISTEN TO THIS!"
The ambient murmuring behind me slowly sharpened into actual conversation.
"Everyone's really interested in our hotel," one of the staff members said cheerfully.
My eyes flicked toward a row of fountain pens arranged like a miniature art exhibit. "Oh, fountain pens," I murmured under my breath, picking up one almost unconsciously. "An ocean design? It's pretty…"
The pen was breathtaking—long, sleek, and filled with swirling blue and silver patterns that looked like trapped currents. I twirled it between my fingers for a moment, imagining how it would look in Eiser's hand.
Should I buy one for him?
The thought was immediate—and immediately crushed. A cold realization pressed on my spine, and I placed the pen back with a soft click.
Right. Gifts aren't really… appropriate, considering.
Divorce proceedings don't exactly pair well with sentimentality.
Even so, the memory of how naturally the idea had come to me made the moment sting.
But the intensifying chatter behind me tugged me back to the present.
"I don't like this new hotel they're building," complained a woman in a red hat.
"It'll get so noisy around here with construction," she continued. "And our quiet city will be swarming with outsiders… Ugh, I hate it. I like things just the way they are. Why don't they build one on their own land?"
Her voice dripped with frustration.
Another woman jumped in, sounding far more hopeful. "Really? I'm excited! Our city will finally grow—shops, streets, all of it. It'll be like Meuracevia someday."
A third voice chimed in, bright as bells. "They're building a big department store next to the hotel! I'm already planning my shopping trips."
"I'm for it too," a man added. "This place needs to get with the times."
Their voices tangled in the air like threads pulled in different directions.
Some were hungry for growth—modernity, prosperity, an influx of opportunity. Others clung fiercely to the quiet life they had always known.
"They're coming in to build and develop this place, something the city can't afford on its own," someone argued. "I want to experience modern culture and civilization."
But just as many resisted:
"It'll get noisy with all the construction… Outsiders everywhere… I hate it."
The push, the pull, the anxiety—it painted a clear picture of a city split down its very center.
Then came the staff member's voice—slightly louder, slightly more confident, as though she was sharing information she believed could settle the issue.
"The old train station is getting a major renovation right away," she said, "and they'll also establish a direct route to the capital. No question this will be beneficial."
My heart thudded once. This was exactly the kind of detail I needed.
She continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "And my dad said our family store needs wealthy tourists. We won't survive without it, not with how things are."
Her logic was undeniable. But the others weren't done resisting.
"Hmph, I still have a bad feeling about it," the red-hat woman muttered. She shrank into a chibi illustration of her own paranoia. "Those people must have ulterior motives. Why our city of all places?"
Because it's beautiful, I countered silently. Because it has enormous potential.
But she spiraled further.
"They probably think very little of us since we're from a subject state… Or they're planning to steal our jobs. PANIC! What if they're trying to take over our city?!"
No, no, no… I inwardly sighed.
If anything, we're bringing IN more jobs. Big spenders. Taxes. Commerce. Please—logic, anyone…
"Oh, whatever! I just don't like it," she huffed. "When it's finished, I'll see for myself just how 'great' it really is… Hmph."
"Yes, please do," someone replied politely.
The mix of fear and hope swirled in the room, thick enough to taste. Tradition versus progress. Safety versus transformation.
But then—
Like a knife sliding cleanly into the conversation, someone said:
"Hey, have you heard? The city sold the cliffs to that hotel."
I froze.
My head snapped up an inch—even though I forced my eyes to remain on the display case.
"THE OHAVIEH CLIFFS?!" someone gasped.
An image conjured itself in my mind: canals winding through a scenic town, stone steps gleaming under golden sunlight, the cliffs rising like crowned architecture above the sea.
"Yeah," another voice said. "I know the city's in debt, but selling it off like that? Both the company for buying it and the city for selling it are thieves!"
The woman with the white cap sounded furious, sharp enough to slice through the air.
I felt a tremor of dread.
That's not true. None of that is true.
She only escalated.
"What on earth is he talking about? I never did anything like that!" she fumed, practically vibrating. "And the hotel plans to put a fence around the cliffs and make them exclusive to guests! Do they not understand what those cliffs mean to us?!"
CLENCH. FUME. CLENCH.
"My word! If that's really happening, we should protest!"
Then came the accusation that sliced deepest:
"They probably threatened the mayor. Why else would he sell, no matter how indebted we are?"
Every word was soaked in venom, in misplaced outrage.
And I stood there listening, my pulse hammering.
They had no idea.
No idea that the truth was the opposite of what they believed.
No idea how much we were helping, not harming.
But the rumor had already taken root, twisting itself into something monstrous.
The belief that I—I—planned to privatize their sacred Ohavieh Cliffs was not just problematic.
It was dangerous.
Explosive.
Capable of unraveling the entire project.
And as their voices rose, echoing with righteous fury, one realization settled cold and heavy in my chest:
This rumor could turn the whole town against me if I didn't address it immediately.
---
The rumors circling around the Ohavieh Cliffs gnawed at me like something physically lodged in my chest. Each twisted claim, each exaggerated whisper, felt like a splinter driven deeper beneath the skin. When the woman in the red hat declared that I had bought the cliffs and planned to fence them off, my blood surged hot enough that I nearly spun around in the middle of the shop.
You locals wouldn't know, I wanted to shout.
We actually helped the city so they wouldn't have to sell off something even more valuable.
My nails dug into my palm.
I worked two straight weeks—late nights, early mornings—to sort out that mess. We stepped in because the mayor begged us to. Because the cliffs, being so close to the hotel site, needed proper stewardship. Because we thought preserving them was more important than profit.
The truth burned in my throat like something desperate for release.
We only asked the city for conditional permission to host occasional outdoor events. Conditional. Rare. Respectful. Not ownership, not fencing, not privatizing.
But I couldn't say any of that—not here, not now, not like this.
In my imagination—vivid, reckless—I pictured myself stomping up to their circle of gossip, slamming my palms onto their table, and shouting:
"HEY, LISTEN! DO YOU GET IT NOW?!"
The fantasy was cathartic. It was also impossible.
I swallowed the words whole and turned away from the group, lifting my chin high enough to pretend I hadn't heard a thing. The shop's warm lamplight gave way to the crisp salt air outside as I stepped toward the waterfront. Sunlight glittered along the waves like a thousand tiny mirrors, reflecting a calm I didn't yet feel.
We'll be outsiders at first, I reminded myself.
Strangers to the locals. Suspicious intruders, even.
Misunderstandings couldn't be fixed by emotional outbursts. They needed soft approaches. Time. Observation. Empathy.
I'll clear this up slowly.
Slowly, carefully, deliberately.
The goal wasn't to win an argument—it was to foster harmony. To make sure the hotel breathed with the same rhythm as Flo Marina, not against it.
I inhaled deeply, letting the sea breeze fill my lungs. The scent of salt and distant flowers grounded me.
It had been a little over a week since I first arrived in this small, sun-drenched city. In that time, a ritual had formed: every day, I climbed the long wooden staircase up to the dark observatory overlooking the construction site. And every day, the land looked the same—barren, bristled with weeds, untouched. A blank page waiting for the first confident ink stroke.
Sometimes that emptiness made me pensive. Sometimes it made me hopeful.
Often, it made me question everything.
I continued wandering through the city, weaving through sunlit alleys and quiet plazas. The people here watched everything. They felt everything. And their voices carried.
"Sweetie, about that hotel… I heard they'll be hiring a lot. I'm thinking of applying."
Another rumor. Another hopeful twist. Another reason to keep listening, even when my nerves frayed.
At a market stall, I bought a cup of blueberries. The shells of their voices drifted around me like smoke:
"The hotel… blah blah blah…"
"The cliffs… blah blah blah…"
"New store… blah blah blah…"
My temples throbbed with every repetition.
Sometimes I wanted to groan aloud: Oh, again…?
But I didn't.
Because behind all the noise, a truth settled into my bones.
This is worth it.
Worth the patience. Worth the discomfort. Worth the uncertainty.
Later that evening, standing at the observatory in a simple white dress, I let the wind lift my hair as the ocean stretched endlessly before me. The empty plot below—dirt, weeds, shadows—was slowly becoming something else in my mind.
A foundation.
A promise.
A beginning.
And maybe… a reflection of me.
Like our magnificent hotel in Wellenberg… this one in Flo Marina is still just a baby.
A baby I would have to raise, guide, protect.
One that would stumble at first.
One that would depend entirely on me.
The thought was daunting. Overwhelming.
But also strangely heartwarming.
I smiled slightly, imagining the future: guests arriving with bright eyes, families making memories, staff laughing during breaks, unexpected mishaps, celebrations… life unfolding in all its messy, beautiful forms.
This hotel would become a place where stories intertwined. A place that grew roots here, in this once-suspicious seaside city.
A place that, someday, the locals would claim as part of their own.
Even after leaving the marketplace, the rumors still buzzed under my skin. But something deeper tugged at me—an urgent need to realign myself, to sit with my thoughts before they grew too heavy to carry.
I found a quiet room washed in soft sunshine, its stillness wrapping around me like a warm blanket. I sat down, picked up a pencil, and began to write.
SCRIBBLE SCRIBBLE.
Line after line poured out—weeks of pent-up worries, months of unspoken fears, buried hopes, quiet determination.
The more I wrote, the faster the words came.
The pencil moved almost on its own.
Then, suddenly—
PAUSE.
My hand stopped.
The page was filled, corner to corner, with my handwriting—tight, small, a spill of thoughts I didn't even realize I had been holding.
And as I stared at it, something loosened in my chest.
Light seeped into the spaces where anxiety had sat for days.
Strangely enough… my head feels clearer.
It was as though my heart had exhaled for the first time in years.
Golden sunlight slanted across the desk. I traced the grain of the wood with my fingertip and whispered my real fear:
Oh, Mom… maybe I came here to prepare myself to be alone.
The truth rang painfully honest.
My marriage was ending.
The people I once leaned on might fade from my life.
And I would soon have to stand on my own two feet—completely.
Maybe I need the courage to protect the things and people I care about, even if I'm alone.
Even if everyone disappears someday.
I folded the letter with deliberate care, sliding it into a plain envelope.
A small, determined flame sparked in me.
I'm going to start small. I'll learn to be strong. I'll make you proud, Grandma. I'll make myself proud.
Clutching the envelope, I walked into the brightly lit church. The sanctuary glowed with warm, stained-glass colors—sunlight filtered through blues, reds, and golds, painting the air with a kind of reverence.
A kind priest approached, his smile soft.
"Have you finished writing? You took quite a while—nearly an hour."
"Oh, Father… I tried to keep it brief, but once I started, I just… couldn't stop. I guess I had a lot to say."
He chuckled gently and held out his hands. "If you're finished, let me seal it and place it in the sacred chest on the altar. All the letters written this year will be burned around this time next year… in a cauldron above the holy water fountain."
I watched as he carefully stored the letter—my hopes, my fears, my shifting spirit—away in the sacred chest.
And as the lid closed, something inside me felt lighter.
Steadier.
More aligned.
My future in Flo Marina—my work, my strength, my transformation—was officially written, sealed, and entrusted to the year ahead.
A new beginning had quietly begun.
The Father had sealed my letter and tucked it gently into the sacred chest, its polished wooden surface glowing in the stained-glass light. A soft weight lifted from my shoulders—light but unmistakable, like the first deep breath after holding one's lungs tight for hours. My intentions were now entrusted to a place beyond simple mortal will.
I stepped back, ready to leave the sun-drenched sanctuary, but a sharp, aching thought clawed its way up from some hidden place inside me. It refused to be ignored.
"Anything else you'd like to add before I seal it?" the Father had asked earlier, watching me with the calm patience of someone who'd seen countless souls wrestle with the same unspoken burdens.
"Write everything down, so that you have no regrets later," he'd advised.
At the time, I had shaken my head. I thought I was done—until now.
Anything else I'd like to add…
My breath hitched.
"Oh, I… I do!" The words erupted from me before I could stop them. I turned back toward the altar with urgency that startled even me, the sleeves of my coat swaying as I moved.
The Father nodded knowingly, stepping aside as I reclaimed the pencil. The sunlight filtering through the glass seemed to sharpen, scattering little prisms across the air as if illuminating my frantic scribbling.
The pencil scratched quickly—desperately—across the paper.
The Father watched, his kind gaze heavy with unspoken understanding. "It seems she misses you a lot," he murmured.
He didn't have to say who she was. The image came instantly, unbidden: my Grandma and me, hand in hand by the ocean. She in her elegant black dress, the emerald necklace resting like a jewel against her warm skin. I remembered her serene smile, the strength she carried so effortlessly, the way she squeezed my hand as if rooting me to the earth.
Grandma…
And then—
Mom.
Oh, Mom, I thought. Maybe you already know…
But Grandma is very sick.
A tear slipped down, landing on the paper—DRIP. It blurred the graphite, but I kept writing, because stopping now felt impossible. Words spilled into a quiet prayer.
Because of a misunderstanding, I hated and resented you for so long…
And now there's so much I want to say, so much I want to ask, so much I want to understand together.
All the wasted years pressed heavily against my ribs.
I looked up at the Father. My voice trembled, thickened by grief and hope interwoven into something fragile.
"…But can't you please… please take her a little bit later?"
My words were faint.
A plea.
A daughter's last, trembling request.
"I… want to spend more time with her."
That single truth anchored everything around me.
I finished the letter slowly, sealing not just ink, but longing, regret, and a tentative beginning of healing within its folds. The hotel, the divorce, the misconceptions swirling in the city—each demanded my resolve. But my real courage… it came from confronting wounds I had avoided for years.
My journey to Flo Marina wasn't only about shaping a future.
It was the beginning of reclaiming my past.
🌆 The Unexpected Encounter — Expanded
By the time I stepped out of the church, the world beyond its doors felt quieter. Or perhaps it was simply my heart that had settled—like a storm finally losing its fury after hours of raging.
The sunset stretched itself across the sky in luminous streaks of warm color, as if the entire horizon had been painted by a careful hand. Flo Marina's canals, bridges, and old stone buildings cast long silhouettes against the fiery light.
Today felt longer than usual.
I walked along the promenade, my boots tapping softly against the aged cobblestone. The sea wind swept across my face—WHISH—lifting strands of my hair, cooling the warmth that clung to my cheeks.
The sea is so beautiful during sunset too.
Dressed in a long black coat, I blended seamlessly into the deepening hues of evening. The sun dipped lower, the golden brilliance slipping away, leaving the city washed in twilight.
I exhaled.
I guess it's about time I headed home…
The thought was practical, gentle, final. I turned slightly, ready to retrace my steps toward the hotel where I was staying.
Then—
Something flickered in the corner of my eye.
A shape.
A silhouette.
A presence.
I inhaled sharply—!
My gaze snapped toward the stretch of sand glowing beneath the last rays of sunset. Past the clusters of café tables where people sipped drinks and laughed. Past the lamps that had just begun to glow softly in the approaching night.
There, on a solitary bench facing the ocean, sat a man.
Alone.
Still.
Silent.
His back was to me, but the shape of his shoulders beneath the dark jacket… the way he sat, leaning forward slightly… the tousled hair catching the orange light—
I knew him.
The profile against the blazing horizon was unmistakable.
A single word escaped me—soft, trembling, disbelieving:
Frederick?
I froze.
The distant hum of the city melted into the roar of the ocean. Time slowed. My breath halted in my throat.
My husband—
The man I was preparing to divorce—
The man whose life was supposed to be hundreds of miles away from mine—
Was here.
Sitting alone at the edge of Flo Marina.
The shock of seeing him stole the breath from my lungs. For a heartbeat, I stood frozen, unable to comprehend the figure sitting alone on the bench by the water. Frederick—my estranged husband, the man whose absence I had spent months preparing myself for—was right there, outlined against the bleeding colors of the sunset.
He looked utterly solitary, his shoulders hunched slightly as if weighed down by thoughts he couldn't shake, the fading light painting gentle highlights across his hair. The sight of him—so familiar, yet so painfully distant—sent my heart into a frantic rhythm. I had thought I was ready to face anything today, but not this.
Not him.
I forced myself to breathe, the air cold against my tightening throat. Slowly, carefully, I walked down the stretch of beach. Each step pressed into the damp sand with a soft crunch, yet the sound felt deafening in the quiet expanse around us. The closer I got, the louder the waves seemed to roar, crashing rhythmically against the shore as if echoing the turmoil inside me.
"Frederick?" I called out, my voice trembling despite my best effort to steady it. The wind carried it toward him, thin and fragile.
He flinched.
His head snapped up, eyes widening in raw shock as he recognized me. For a split second, our expressions mirrored one another—two people blindsided by the same unexpected collision of fate. His hand, resting on the bench, clenched momentarily before he stood up, tension rippling through him.
"I… what are you doing here?" he asked. His tone wasn't cold, merely stunned, as if he were questioning the reality of the moment itself.
"That's what I should be asking you," I replied, keeping a cautious distance between us. The gap felt symbolic—months of unspoken pain stretched invisibly across the sand. "This city is quite a distance from the capital."
Frederick's gaze drifted back to the horizon. The twilight sky flickered with violent shades of red and purple, and he seemed to lose himself in it for a moment. The wind tugged gently at his coat, swirling strands of his hair.
"I have… business here," he finally said, his hands sliding into his pockets in a way that told me he wasn't being fully honest.
I narrowed my eyes. Business? Frederick rarely came this far for anything trivial—no matter how urgent. The excuse rang hollow.
"What kind of business could bring you all the way to Flo Marina?" I asked softly but firmly.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he exhaled a slow, defeated sigh, then turned fully toward me. Seeing his face so clearly in the dimming light—a mix of fatigue, conflict, and a hint of something mournful—made the reality of our impending divorce strike me with fresh force.
"I heard about your venture," he said at last. "The hotel."
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt.
You… heard about it?
My hotel—the project I had poured myself into because I needed independence, space, identity. Because I needed to rewrite my future without being overshadowed by him or anyone else. I had never expected him to follow that story. Not anymore.
"Why? Why are you here?" I demanded, my arms crossing instinctively over my chest, protective. The fragile sense of closure I'd found earlier evaporated instantly, replaced by a tightening anxiety coiling inside my ribs.
Frederick took a tentative step toward me—but stopped, as if respecting a boundary we both knew was there.
"I know this is a messy situation," he began. "And I know you don't want to see me." He paused, searching for words that felt too heavy to speak. "I came to deliver this."
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a slender object. My breath caught.
It was the fountain pen—the one with the ocean design I had admired earlier in the shop. The swirling blues and silvers gleamed faintly, reflecting the dying rays of sunlight.
Oh, fountain pens.
An ocean design… it's pretty.
Should I buy one for Eiser as a gift? He uses fountain pens a lot.
I remembered thinking that idly, never imagining this pen would reappear in Frederick's hand, of all places.
"I realized I was holding onto it for a long time," he said quietly. "Thinking I should give it to you when we met again." His voice faltered, carrying softly with the breeze. "I know we can't exactly be giving each other gifts at this point, not when we're on the verge of divorce… What was I thinking?"
His words weren't bitter. They were heavy with self-awareness—and something else I couldn't name without hurting myself.
"But still," he continued, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly as he held the pen out toward me. "I wanted you to have it. I know you like to write."
That simple statement—I know you like to write—hit me harder than it should have. A remnant of intimacy carved into memory, resurfacing now when everything between us was falling apart.
I looked at the pen. Then at him.
His eyes weren't angry. They were shadowed with sadness, quiet resignation, and the weight of letting go. He hadn't come to cause trouble. He hadn't come to claim anything. He had come to make a small, final offering—something deeply human, deeply painful.
Frederick, are you… thinking about me even now?
A sharp ache bloomed in my chest.
I reached out, hesitating only for a breath, and took the pen from his hand. The metal was cold—almost startlingly so—against my palm.
"…Thank you," I murmured, the first soft word I had spoken to him in what felt like a lifetime.
Silence washed over us, thick and suffocating. It carried every memory, every broken piece, every unspoken truth. And between us stood the vast ocean—beautiful, brutal, indifferent—reflecting the ending we were standing in the middle of.
And the future we were quietly, painfully unraveling.
The moment I had been pushing away, circling around, pretending wasn't approaching—
was finally here.
The answers I'd run from, the confrontation I'd delayed under the guise of practicality,
now stood before me like a door I could no longer avoid opening.
My breath trembled. My heart felt bruised, tender, unbearably vulnerable.
Fine.
Let's say I did what you accused me of—
that I "kept you out of the way."
Let's say I kept you at a distance.
Let's say I pushed you aside.
Let's say I created that cold, polite wall between us.
Because the truth is…
I did.
I kept you away.
Not because you were unimportant.
Not because it was convenient.
But because every time I saw you, even from afar, something inside me twisted painfully.
Because I was mad at you.
Because I resented you.
Because you—of all people—someone who had once stood closer to me than anyone else—
lied.
And that betrayal…
It shattered something I wasn't ready to acknowledge.
The truth I was too afraid to face…
too afraid to hear…
hung between us like a blade.
So I told myself I was busy. Too busy to speak, too busy to listen, too busy to face whatever explanation you had. I used work, exhaustion, responsibility—whatever I could—as excuses.
Neglect… wrapped in practicality.
Distance… disguised as duty.
But don't think for a moment that I forgot you.
Or that I abandoned you.
I didn't.
I just… needed time.
Time to breathe.
Time to think.
Time to gather the pieces of myself so that when the moment came—when now came—
I could stand without crumbling under the weight of what you'd tell me.
Time to make myself strong enough to withstand the truth…
whether it comforted me
or destroyed me.
Of course, part of me wanted to quietly observe from the shadows—
to figure out who had manipulated you, who had planted lies in your ears,
who had weaponized your loyalty against me.
But that wasn't the only reason I couldn't bring myself to cast you out the moment everything went wrong.
You caused me pain.
Deep, lingering pain.
You caused me fear, doubt, and nights where I stared at the ceiling wondering how someone like you—someone I trusted—could wound me like that.
But even so…
Despite all of that…
I—
in the deepest, most fragile part of my heart—
was sorry.
Sorry for what had happened.
Sorry for what I had done.
Sorry for the coldness, the silence, the way I let anger shield me from the hurt.
I may have resented you…
but I was sorry, too.
Maybe you came to me with hidden intentions.
Maybe you were following orders, driven by motives that had nothing to do with loyalty or friendship or anything real.
But the time we spent together,
the conversations we shared,
the laughter and the quiet moments—
I don't believe all of that was a lie.
Not then.
Not now.
And that…
is the truth I've been running from.
.
When my world had shrunk to the size of that room…
when the walls felt like they were pressing in…
when every breath felt like an act of survival—
you were there.
We relied on each other simply to make it through each day.
But even then…
even in the darkest moments…
a part of me was always aching.
Because I stepped out of that room—
I found strength, light, air—
but you…
you stayed behind in the shadows I left.
There was something I never got to say,
because you left without a word.
My throat tightened, but my voice remained steady.
"Leave me… and live your own life, Frederick."
I forced myself to say it—
the thing I had been holding for so long.
The soft farewell that had turned into a thorn.
"Think about it," I whispered, my eyes tracing the waves breaking against the shore.
"I said goodbye to those days… the days when I wasn't myself.
When I spent hours curled up under blankets, hiding in a darkened bedroom."
The memories stabbed at me—small fragments of him in those suffocating days:
Standing beside me, exposing himself to insults and malicious gossip just to make sure I could walk into a room without collapsing.
Quietly organizing my earrings after outings, handling each one like fragile glass.
Running my errands in that small room in the manor—tasks far beneath him, yet he never complained.
Absorbing my mood swings, my silence, my pain, without flinching.
I took a shaky breath.
"That wasn't the real you, Frederick. It never was."
The wind tugged at my coat as I lifted my eyes to him—
to the man standing there, looking more lost than I had ever seen him.
"So… let go of it all," I said gently.
"Just as I found myself… you should return to your real self too."
I swallowed, the words tasting bittersweet.
"That's the final farewell…
…I wanted to bid you."
SPLASH
A wave crashed behind him, scattering seawater into the air like glass shards catching the dying sunlight.
I straightened, my voice cutting through the sound of the surf.
"No more lies. Tell me why you approached me."
His reaction was immediate—
a freezing stillness, a tightening around the eyes.
"If you answer me honestly," I continued, "I'll forgive you for everything.
I'll consider it the price I paid for you saving my life."
Frederick's gaze lowered, shadowed by guilt.
"It's all right if you don't forgive me," he said quietly.
"But I can tell you, if you wish.
Just know this—if you hear it today, it may lead to hearing… other truths.
Truths you might not want to know."
"Stop talking in riddles," I snapped, tension rippling between us.
"Out with it."
He drew a slow breath, bracing himself.
"...Two years ago," he began, "someone told me they had seen a confidential document issued by the kingdom."
A chill ran down my spine.
"It was about…"
His voice dropped—heavy, solemn.
"…the Serenity family secret."
My breath stopped.
WHAT?
Frederick continued, each word landing with startling weight.
"According to that document, the Serenity family possesses a mysterious object… kept hidden for a very long time."
The world seemed to tilt slightly—
the sky, the sea, Frederick's face—
blurring into one tense, spiraling moment.
"There was no clue," he finished,
"as to what that object was…"
…but they probably assumed that since this was a confidential document issued by the kingdom, it had to be true.
A document of that level wasn't something an ordinary person would question. It carried the cold authority of the crown, the kind that made people swallow their doubts and obey without protest.
A confidential document issued by the kingdom?
My heartbeat thudded, slow and heavy.
The Serenity family secret? I don't know anything about that.
"That was my assignment," Frederick continued, his voice tight with a mixture of shame and resignation. "To find the object that would serve as proof of your family's secret—and possibly its weakness."
The room felt colder.
He wasn't just someone who had slipped into my life by accident. My meeting him hadn't been fate—it had been engineered.
"I originally planned to get close to the family through other means," he confessed. "But I got lucky. You just happened to be looking for someone to guard you closely."
I remembered it vividly now—
the night I overheard Eiser's phone call, the panic that seized my chest, the immediate need for someone at my side.
That fear had opened the door for him.
"So that's the route you used…" I murmured, the pieces clicking together with a bitter finality.
"And not only did you make me your bodyguard," he said quietly, "you trusted me implicitly, which meant I had access to every inch of the manor…"
He paused.
"Except for the one place you forbade me from entering."
The annex.
My breath stilled.
I remembered the cold stone corridor, the heavy door, the instinctive unease I always felt near it.
"So back then…" I said slowly, "the day Eiser and I came back to the manor after an outing. That's why you were in the annex? To find that object?"
"Yes." He didn't try to defend himself. "But ultimately, I failed to find any document, object, or clue that might reveal the Serenity family's secret or weakness."
"Of course," I snapped. "Nothing like that exists."
Silence clung to the air, thick and unmoving.
I inhaled deeply, letting the dim crimson glow of the room settle around me. The dying sunlight slanted through the curtains, painting my figure in simmering shades of red. I leaned toward him, my voice low but unwavering.
"Last question, Frederick."
He looked up at me with hollow eyes.
"Who put you up to this?"
For a moment, his image blurred—the Frederick from my memories, the one who cared for me in small, quiet ways, overlapping with the stranger who had been sent to infiltrate my life. But the truth was merciless. Those memories were already ghosts.
"The office said he'd suddenly disappeared without a trace," I recalled bitterly. "So it's been impossible to find who was behind it all. Another dead end."
My mind drifted to that dark, suffocating room where I had once waited for answers. The gloomy furniture swallowed the light; the air felt thick with the residue of betrayal.
"The broker who introduced Frederick to us never contacted us again."
I could still see myself sitting across from a man who, even now, remained an enigmatic silhouette in my memory—his outline swallowed by the shadows draped across the dimly lit room.
Then—
A jarring, prolonged BEEEEEP shattered the air.
The world changed.
I was outside now.
The evening sky was strange, unnaturally vibrant, casting eerie purple and crimson streaks against the wet cobblestones beneath my feet. The street glistened as though freshly washed by rain.
The man next to me had his back turned, rigid, tense.
"…" I started, the words catching in my throat.
"THAT'S—" he muttered, the unfinished sentence trembling with recognition or dread—I couldn't tell which.
Before I could ask—
A sharp voice cut through the air like a blade.
"YOU THERE!"
I turned abruptly.
"FREEZE!"
My breath hitched.
I instinctively raised a hand to shield my eyes—the harsh glare from the approaching lights clashed with the surreal twilight sky.
WHAT?!
The instinctive alarm pulsed through me.
"POLICE?"
A line of men in military-style uniforms advanced with mechanical precision, their boots striking the cobblestone in heavy, unified steps.
MARCH… MARCH…
One man stepped forward—a figure of authority, his peaked cap low over his eyes, insignia gleaming faintly on his uniform. Even in the distorted light, his presence dominated the scene.
He stopped directly before me.
His face was shadowed.
"Are you Serena of Meuracevia?"
I straightened despite the tension coiling inside me, forcing my breathing to steady.
"Yes, I am. What's this about?"
But the air told me the truth—
this wasn't a routine inquiry.
This was something else.
Something bigger.
The pieces of the puzzle weren't fitting—and now this.
My investigation into Frederick's disappearance and the shadowy figure controlling him had led to nothing but dead ends.
And now, here I was—
face-to-face with armed authority.
A new door had opened, and I had no idea what lay on the other side.
The officer's face was carved from stone—no flicker of doubt, no hint of emotion.
"Someone in your household filed a report," he said evenly. "Are you all right? Any injuries?"
For a moment, the words didn't make sense. They hovered in the air, distorted by disbelief.
My brow furrowed. "Sounds like there was a misunderstanding at home," I replied, masking my disbelief with a light, almost airy tone. "Goodness, that startled me. It was nothing."
I shifted my gaze between the officer and the man beside me, trying to maintain control of the situation.
"You can go now," I added firmly. "I'm completely fine, as you can see, and I traveled here of my own volition. I'll call home and let them know I'm—"
CLICK.
The sound was sharp, metallic, and final.
My breath caught as my eyes snapped downward.
Handcuffs.
Cold steel encircled the wrists of the man beside me—Frederick—locking into place with chilling efficiency.
"What—! Hey! What are you doing?!" I burst out, my voice cracking through the tension like a whip.
Another officer stepped forward, his tone gentle but patronizing—like speaking to someone fragile.
"It's all right, ma'am. You're safe now. We'll be taking that man away."
Safe?
Safe from what?
My anger spiked, cutting through shock.
"No! You're mistaken!" I protested, stepping closer, my body instinctively shielding Frederick. "I came here on a trip, and this man is with me. Take those cuffs off him this instant!"
The primary officer's unnerving composure didn't falter.
"Is that so?" he asked, head tilting just slightly. "Your husband reported that you were kidnapped by an unidentified illegal immigrant."
"WHAT?"
The word flew out of me, raw, disbelieving, almost hoarse from the force behind it.
My husband?
Accusing me of being kidnapped?
By him?
The accusation was absurd—no, it was maliciously crafted.
A precise blade aimed at my autonomy, my reputation, and the investigation I was trying to conduct.
The officer spoke again, voice smooth and official.
"Given the seriousness of the charges, he requested that an investigation take place, so we'll need to question him."
My pulse thundered in my ears.
"Lieutenant!" another officer called out.
We all turned.
The subordinate held up a card.
"He does have identification. It's a citizenship card from Meuracevia, but… I think it needs to be verified."
A beat of suffocating silence.
The main officer nodded once.
"Mr. Frederick, you'll have to come with us."
Frederick didn't resist.
He didn't argue.
He didn't even look at me.
His silence was absolute—an eerie stillness that made my stomach twist.
I stared, helplessly anchored to the ground as they started to lead him away.
The dramatic twilight sky above seemed too beautiful, its orange and purple hues clashing violently with the chaos spiraling around me.
It felt like the world itself was mocking me—
a breathtaking horizon paired with a brutal, calculated betrayal.
My own husband had done this.
Not out of concern.
Not out of fear.
But to manipulate.
To control.
To derail everything I was doing—and isolate me again.
My fists curled so tightly my nails dug into my palms. Rage simmered beneath my skin, hot and quiet and deadly.
This was not an accident.
This was a move on a board I had thought I'd escaped long ago.
And it would not go unanswered.
The cuffs were gone, but the plot was thicker.