Eiser pov
---
That evening, the thunder rumbled, a sound I had grown to despise—a deep, harsh, booming echo that shook the windows and rattled the floorboards. I knew you must be hearing it too, trapped in that cold, sterile place, far from my reach. The thought of your unease, your fear, made the oppressive sound even worse.
I stood by the window, tracing the erratic lines of rain as they lashed against the panes. The city outside blurred into a smear of gray and white streaks, each flash of lightning illuminating the outlines of the empty streets. On nights like this, when thunder tore across the sky, you often had nightmares. I remembered your words, spoken softly in the dark of night: how the thunder would make you flinch, how it would make sleep impossible. That knowledge gnawed at me—I could not find peace while you were suffering. I wished, silently, that this storm would pause, just long enough for you to rest.
A knock at the door pulled me from my vigil. I turned, tense.
"Mr. Eiser," came a measured voice. "The lawyers have arrived."
I swallowed, my stomach tightening. The legal team was already assembled in the parlor, a group of somber, professional faces arranged around the low table. Their presence alone carried the weight of inevitability. They had come with news.
"And..." the oldest among them began, standing as he revealed a thick stack of papers. "DOCUMENTS FROM THE COURT."
I nodded, bracing myself.
"The trial for Lady Serena has been scheduled for the 15th, at 11 A.M.," he said, his voice even, deliberate, stripping the words of any comfort.
I absorbed the details, my mind already running ahead, calculating, anticipating.
"The Prime Minister attempted to delay the schedule as much as possible," he continued, "but we negotiated the timing to the best of our ability. Given that this trial falls under emergency procedures, this timeframe is sufficient for our preparations."
He paused, his expression darkening, the shadow of concern crossing his face.
"And more importantly," he said, lowering his voice, "because of the nature of this special trial, Lady Serena herself must attend and take an oath."
My eyes flicked to the documents, scanning, analyzing, committing every detail to memory. The 15th at 11 AM. I would make sure we were ready.
The old lawyer spoke again, his tone steady. "Considering she is in custody, the longer the trial is delayed, the greater the strain on her health. Now that the date is fixed, we can begin our preparations in earnest."
Even as he spoke, my mind drifted elsewhere, caught by a personal echo. The 15th… that date carried another significance known only to me.
The court had confirmed the divorce date. It coincided precisely with the end of my contract marriage to Serena. Professional obligations alone dictated this separation; the contract with Iansa made the divorce unavoidable. Unless something extraordinary happened—if Iansa were to wake unexpectedly—my role would conclude in fifteen days.
As I considered this overlap, a small, calculated satisfaction settled in my chest. If the trial concluded as expected, if the ruling favored us, there would be nothing more I could ask for. My final task would be complete.
I was brought back to the present by the lawyer's next statement. His voice, measured and crisp, cut through my thoughts.
"Also, today's visitation with Lady Serena is set for 5 P.M."
---
The legal team's briefing continued, methodical and precise, each word sharpening the focus of the room. Every step of the trial had to be flawless.
"At the last visitation," the senior lawyer explained, his tone calm but deliberate, "we fully explained the Sacred Pact and the Private Guard. We made certain she could directly see the original pact, to ensure there would be no confusion or misrepresentation."
Another lawyer, the one with glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, leaned forward. His fingers traced the edges of his notes. "So today, before the main trial preparations, we will present the key points of argument, the evidence submission plan, and the countermeasures against the Prime Minister's anticipated maneuvers."
I listened carefully, absorbing every detail, parsing it in my mind. "Since this matter has been treated with utmost secrecy," I interjected, "there is no direct evidence remaining around the former Queen or Major Chedirn. Our main support will rely on the testimonies from those who served in the Private Guard at the time."
Heads nodded around the table, the lawyers confident yet cautious. I reviewed the strategy with them, meticulously, ensuring every possible angle was accounted for. Serena's acquittal was not just a goal—it was my responsibility, the one task I would not compromise on.
A Few Days Later…
The rain had not stopped. Its relentless rhythm—Swaaagh, kwaaaah—pounded against the house, filling the quiet spaces with the sound of the storm outside. It was both a comfort and a reminder, a cadence that mirrored the turmoil in my own mind.
I drifted back to a memory, quiet and vivid, one from long ago.
It was the day I had embarked on my first business trip to Santoria Blue. I remembered the sterile scent of the office, the hum of the plane engines, and the weight of responsibility pressing down on my shoulders.
And I remembered the day I returned home.
I stood beside her bed, utterly exhausted, my suit still clinging with the faint metallic tang of blood from the dangerous work I had undertaken. That smell, that visceral reminder of my role in a world that demanded both ruthlessness and discretion, had never left me.
The moment it started—the moment she completely…
I froze in the memory, the quiet room around me dissolving into the echo of the past. Her small, still form on the large bed, the air thick with unspoken words. My mission, my obligations, all pressing closer to their inevitable conclusion, yet incapable of shielding me from the personal cost.
I remembered it clearly: the day she struck me for the first time. The shock had never left me, lodged in my chest like a bitter stone. The anger, the disappointment etched on her face, was as vivid now as it had been then.
I closed my eyes, letting the memory play, seeing her face—a blur of heartbreak and frustration, tears streaking down, voice caught in silence. I had not tried to stop her. I had allowed it. That single strike was nothing compared to the pain I knew I had caused her through the life I had chosen, through the compromises forced upon me by the person I was required to become.
And as the memory faded, I was left in the quiet, rain-soaked room, facing the reality that loomed before me: the impending trial and the unavoidable end of our contract.
The Korean text of the title hovered in my mind: 세이렌 (Se-i-ren), by 글/그림 청이낙 (Geul/Geurim Cheong-i-nak).
Victor pov
---
The memory sharpened, coalescing into an internal monologue, a conversation I carried silently in my head as I gazed at your still form. Back then, and even now, my thoughts remained unchanged.
"The world isn't built on morals and common sense alone. Choosing the easier, surer path isn't always wrong. Even now, it's the same. You'll probably never understand me—but that's fine. Because I know your heart."
I knew what you had done, and why. I could see it in every quiet gesture, every unspoken hesitation. My eyes shifted to the window as the rain hammered against the glass, relentless and sharp.
"When you plotted with Eiser to push me out by marrying him, and when you thought it ended the moment he left the house… I know what you were feeling. When I waited for you even as you fled to the Republic to escape me, and even now, when you've returned, still… I can't stop. Because I know you, I can't stop."
My voice stayed low, barely a whisper, though the room was empty of ears to hear it.
"That's why you're so afraid of Peppletta, isn't it? Afraid your hidden feelings might show."
You flinched slightly in the bed, or perhaps it was just the flicker of the low lamp. I stepped closer, a wave of deep, unspoken sadness washing over me.
"I'm sorry I used that against you. But I never intended to weaponize Peppletta against you. I never wanted to hurt you with it. I only wanted… to hear your true feelings."
The words hung in the heavy air, fragile and raw.
"I always wanted to hear your true feelings, directly, from you… when you're whole."
I looked down at your peaceful, sleeping face, the calm so delicate it felt as though a single sigh could shatter it. Outside, the storm continued unabated, lightning stabbing through the darkened sky, illuminating the room in stark, fleeting flashes.
I stood silently, letting the moment stretch, allowing the storm and the quiet to merge into one. I closed my eyes as a brilliant blue streak of lightning tore across the sky.
"I'll wait, Diah."
With that, I drew a deep, measured breath and turned away, leaving the dark, quiet room to you, stepping lightly across the rain-slick floors until the door closed softly behind me.
---
Diah's Perspective
KWA-YANG!
A tremendous clap of thunder shook the room. A flash of lightning—Beonjjeok—jolted me awake.
I gasped, my eyes wide in the oppressive darkness. My throat felt constricted—Eureong…—and a wave of nausea hit me, wrenching me into the sheets. Euwok, Euwok…! I clamped my hands over my mouth, fists digging into the blankets.
Haaah…
My body convulsed in silence. My insides twisted with pain, and my head ached as though it might split open at any moment.
How many days had passed? Since I was confined here? The days blurred together into a fog of endless, agonizing repetition.
My breath hitched. And then, in the stillness following the thunder, a foreign scent reached me.
"...!"
I scanned the room frantically, but it appeared empty.
"A faint smell of cigarettes…!"
The aroma clung faintly to the air, distinctive, intimate—a scent I knew all too well.
My heart thudded violently against my ribs. I turned my head, straining to locate him in the emptiness.
He had been just here.
---
I sat up, shaking the heavy blankets from my body. The chill of the room bit through the thin fabric of my nightgown, and the rain's relentless Shwaaah against the window pressed into my senses. My heart thudded violently, driven by a sudden, frantic purpose that overrode the aches and nausea still lingering from confinement.
He was just here.
The faint, lingering scent of his cigar smoke was unmistakable—intimately tied to his presence. It clung to the air like proof, a signature that he had stood over me, watching me sleep, before disappearing into the night.
Without hesitation, I threw the covers aside and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I didn't pause to find a proper robe; the thin, damp nightgown I wore I clutched tightly against my chest as I rushed to the window.
Through the distorted, rain-streaked glass, I caught a glimpse of him. Victor—Eiser—the man whose presence could unravel my composure with a single glance. His figure was tall, dark, almost statuesque, moving away from the building. A man beside him held an umbrella, shielding him from the downpour.
"VICTOR!!" I screamed, throwing the window open. The rain instantly lashed at me, cold and stinging, but I didn't care.
The man holding the umbrella froze, his back rigid as he glanced toward me.
Under the umbrella, Victor slowly turned his head. His dark hair was plastered against his forehead by the rain, and the scar along his jaw caught the dim light, a stark line of brutality and history.
I stepped onto the small balcony, the icy rain soaking through my nightgown instantly, clinging to my skin.
"…WAIT." My voice trembled, breathless. I raised my hand toward him, fighting against the storm. "I have something to say."
Victor's gaze met mine, sharp and calculating, cutting through the heavy sheets of rain. With a curt nod, he dismissed the man holding the umbrella, who stepped back immediately, leaving Victor alone beneath the umbrella's shadow.
My teeth chattered, my lips trembling, but I forced the words out.
"I have something to say."
He waited, his expression unreadable. That familiar scar across his cheek drew my eye, a reminder of everything we had endured together—and apart.
"Victor… I know." I didn't elaborate; the weight of the years of unspoken truths hung between us like a tangible thing. "I know that I wronged you…"
A ghost of a grim smile flickered across his lips, a look of profound, weary understanding.
"Yes. You wronged me, Diah."
The truth of it struck harder than any accusation ever could. Delivered without anger, without judgment—just simple, unflinching fact.
The rain continued its relentless assault, forming a veil of privacy around us. I clutched the lapels of my gown, shivering against the cold and the storm.
"I…" I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I know I can't apologize for everything. But there is one thing I must tell you."
Summoning all the strength I had left, pushing past the dizziness and nausea, I finally spoke the hardest truth.
"It's about… about Iansa."
Victor's expression remained unchanged, stoic as ever, yet I felt it—something subtle shifting. A tension in his jaw, a stillness in the way he held the umbrella. He was listening.
"The Prime Minister… and the plot against her. I will take responsibility for it."
I meant every word. I couldn't prevent my own trial, but I could ensure that the schemes against Serena—the woman he had married under contract—would be exposed.
I saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes, brief but unmistakable.
"Even though it's too late for me… it might not be too late for them."
The rain blurred my vision, yet I could still see him—Victor—his figure strong, silent, immovable against the storm. I inhaled a shaky, uneven breath, knowing that the hardest truth was still to come.
Eiser pov
The rain fell like a ceaseless curtain outside, hammering the windows of the austere meeting room. Thunder rolled through the night, a deep, resonant bass that seemed to shake the air itself. The room smelled faintly of old wood and rain-soaked stone, but more than that, it carried the unsaid tension between us, heavy and suffocating.
I looked at her—the woman standing before me, slender and fragile, her hand clutching the fabric of her belted dressing gown. Even in the dim, damp light, I could see how much she had changed. Gone was the fiery woman I had married; in her place was a quiet, careful silhouette shaped by anxiety, distance, and the weight of expectation.
A voice from somewhere deep in me, one I had not intended to use tonight, finally broke the silence.
"I have something to say."
She did not move, yet I saw the slight flinch in her shoulder, the way her grip tightened. It was enough.
I took a measured step forward; the polished leather of my shoes whispered across the marble floor. My composure, carefully constructed over years, was cracking.
"I swore I wouldn't see you until the trial was over." The words were bitter, a confession of the vow I had imposed—for her sake, for appearances, for the bitter end we were approaching.
"But on some impulse," I continued, the justification spilling out in a tumble of half-truths, a desperate scramble for reason, "I came myself today, instead of sending the lawyers."
I had built a fortress of excuses: practicality, necessity, obligation. But the truth was far more selfish.
"Using the excuse of the endless rain and thunder," I admitted silently, letting the sound of the storm itself bear some weight of explanation.
"Using the excuse that you had to know the divorce date," a cold, professional necessity I could no longer pretend mattered more than my own yearning.
"Using the excuse of checking whether you'd grown thinner," an absurd attempt to disguise genuine concern under the guise of casual observation.
And finally, the damning truth:
"Or bitten your lips again—" a habit of hers I had loved and worried over, now etched into my memory like a knife.
I watched her, unable to hold her gaze for more than a heartbeat, yet incapable of looking away.
"Piling up every reason, I ended up here."
My eyes swept across the room, an ornate, unfamiliar space, then to the grand window where the rain's shadow fell in jagged streaks.
Suddenly, I noticed the subtle change. The room was dark—but not entirely.
"The lights are off. Could it be…"
Her hand moved slightly, and my breath caught. My blue eyes, normally sharp and cold, softened under the sudden, intense focus. Even in the dark, even in the shadows cast by rain, her presence was a deafening declaration: she was here, and she had not retreated from me.
The house was silent once more, the confrontation fading into the echoing storm outside. I had come under a flimsy pretext, yet the truth was that I had not expected to find her asleep here, in this quiet, shadowed room.
I moved closer to the bed. The ambient purple glow from the windows lent a strange, melancholic light to her form. Her soft, steady breathing—saegeuk…—anchored me to the moment, a fragile tether to reality.
How long had it been since I last saw her face?
It felt like a lifetime. The chasm we had spent years building—the carefully constructed distance, the formality of duty—mocked the intimacy of this moment. I leaned closer, unable to restrain the ache in my chest.
"Do you know how much I love watching you sleep?"
It was not a question meant for her ears. It was a confession of vulnerability, a secret sanctuary I had never shared.
"If your smiling face is dazzlingly bright and beautiful, your sleeping face is gentle and calm."
I contrasted the two images in my mind: the public Serena, vibrant and radiant; the private Serena, quiet, unguarded, resting. It was the latter I cherished, the one no one else truly saw.
"I love that quiet, peaceful time of watching you sleep, so much that I often wished time would stop right there."
In these fleeting moments, the turbulence of our marriage—the political maneuvering, the calculated coldness, the looming divorce—dissolved. For a moment, we were simply two people, not pieces in a larger scheme.
Perhaps it had been like this from the very first time in the annex. That night remained vivid in my memory, the night when our complicated history first began, and this quiet obsession with her sleeping form took root.
"Even though that moment made me happy, there was always a sadness I couldn't explain."
The joy of seeing her at peace was tainted by the knowledge that it was temporary, precarious, and perhaps never truly mine to observe. Yet tonight, that sadness felt heavier, unbearable.
"But tonight, your sleeping face only feels unbearably sad."
She looked lost, even in slumber. Her brow was smooth, untroubled, yet the curve of her lips carried resignation, the slackness of her hands the weight of surrender. The face of a woman who had endured and fought, finally yielding.
And as I stood there, a man who had come to confirm the final date of our separation, I felt a profound, crushing regret for having been the cause of her sorrow.
L
I lingered beside the bed, motionless, the sight of her sleeping face both a comfort and a torment. Peace appeared to rest on her features, a delicate mask that hid the truth of her exhaustion, her sorrow. To anyone else, it might have seemed serene, even beautiful. To me, it was a devastating lie.
"If your smiling face is dazzlingly bright and beautiful, your sleeping face is especially gentle and calm," I thought, the words echoing in the hollow space of the room.
I had treasured these quiet moments, stolen glimpses of her vulnerability, a private sanctuary in the midst of our fractured existence.
"I love that quiet, peaceful time of watching you sleep, so much that I often wished time would stop right there."
But I knew better. That peace was always fragile, always temporary, and always shadowed by a dark understanding that I could neither erase nor ignore.
"Even though that moment made me happy, there was always a sadness I couldn't explain."
It had been a premonition, a subtle warning that these fleeting joys came at a cost. A cost I had ignored for too long.
"But tonight, your sleeping face only feels unbearably sad."
The source of that sadness, the root of her quiet suffering, finally crystallized in my mind. I clenched my fists at my side, the strength of my grip betraying the fury and remorse coiling within me.
I had spent decades building my empire, pursuing power and prestige, chasing the destiny I had carved with tireless ambition. Yet in my obsession with control and success, I had failed to see the collateral damage—the wreckage left in my wake.
"I was endlessly happy in the time I spent with your name," I admitted silently to myself, memories flashing before my eyes—the honor, the stability, the sense of completeness her presence lent to my life. My name had gained weight, authority, prestige, only because of her by my side.
Yet that same name, my carefully crafted reputation, my relentless drive, had become a heavy, invisible chain around her neck.
"While you have endured pain you should never have faced because of mine."
The realization was a slow, grinding knife in my gut. Every enemy I vanquished, every honor I claimed, every calculated maneuver that elevated my standing, had extracted a hidden toll: her tranquility, her peace of mind, her very sense of security.
"From the moment I set foot in your home until this moment when I must leave, my name has only brought you suffering."
It was undeniable, an unassailable truth that had taken root and would not be denied. The very air in the room seemed to carry it, thick and oppressive, pressing against my chest.
"And so, that painful truth leaving it behind as I go," I swore silently. I could not rewrite the past, but I could choose to stop burdening her with it further. This divorce—harsh, abrupt, and irrevocable—would be the final act of preservation. I would bear the weight of my failures, letting my name carry the consequences, sparing her from the chains I had forged.
Yet the pain, this deep, gnawing wound carved into my spirit, refused to obey reason.
"Tears at me, and won't let go."
It clung to me, a constant reminder that freedom came at a cost she would feel long after I was gone. I looked at her one last time, memorizing the fragile curve of her face, the small, unguarded movements of her hands. My heart ached—not only for the woman I was leaving, but for the man I had failed to be beside her.