“If I were to have a god, it would be Lady Garnet.”
Madam Camille stared blankly at the design sketches in front of her.
Was it a blow to her pride? Not at all.
Madam Camille was a talented woman.
But even more than her talent, she was born with ambition—deep and burning.
And for that, she felt nothing but gratitude toward Lady Garnet.
To think such magnificent ideas had been tucked away in that woman’s mind, only to be poured out and gifted to her. If a god truly existed for her, it could only be Lady Garnet.
Madam Camille brushed off her now-wrinkled dress.
Kneeling on the floor earlier had left creases, and even a faint smudge of dust on her knees.
So what? I've been blessed beyond reason.
She slowly studied the sketches again, as if trying to memorize them permanently.
Then, after closing the design book and placing it inside a hidden safe, Camille called for her assistant.
“Go procure some fabric. I need quilted material filled with silk down.”
“Silk down? Does that even exist?”
“It does. Contact the trading company that deals in eastern continent textiles. I heard they had it in stock—no, I’m certain they do.”
Camille bit her tongue after nearly revealing too much and continued smoothly,
“Make sure it's pure silk down. If anything else is mixed in, it won’t do.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Be quick about it.”
It had been an unexpected day.
Ione had tea with Adrian, then naturally shared dinner with him before they parted for the evening.
It hadn’t been exactly warm, but not uncomfortable either.
It felt…
normal
.
So this is what life as a noble couple is like
, Ione thought.
As she prepared for bed and tucked herself in, she allowed herself to believe that a small ray of light had entered her life.
At least, until Adrian suddenly walked into her bedroom.
“Is something the matter?”
she asked.
“I came to sleep.”
“I—pardon? What did you just say?”
“I said I came to sleep.”
“In
my
room, Your Grace?”
“Call me Adrian.”
He entered casually, gently shaking the moisture from his hair—clearly having come straight from a bath.
His shirt was slightly unbuttoned, damp hair glistening, skin unusually soft-looking, and movements relaxed from fatigue.
It was a completely different side of Adrian than she had seen during the day—yet, just as mesmerizing.
Ione’s mind went blank.
“Um, Your Grace—”
“Adrian,”
he corrected, approaching while running a hand through his wet hair.
He looked ready to lift the covers and climb in beside her.
Panicking, Ione jumped to her feet and waved her hands frantically.
“W-Wait a moment!”
“Yes?”
“I mean, suddenly like this...”
“You agreed to my proposal earlier—to let me protect you.”
That was supposed to be a question, not an answer
.
The words dangled on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them.
She wasn’t stupid.
Saying that out loud would lead to disaster.
But sleeping beside this man? Not exactly a comforting idea.
So much for “getting comfortable.”
It had been a delusion.
Ione sometimes overestimated herself—and today was one of those days.
What on earth had she meant by “normal” and “comfortable”? Who even
said
that?
Ione screamed internally.
“I-I can sleep alone. Nothing’s ever happened while I was asleep.”
“You wouldn’t know.”
His voice dropped a tone, chillingly calm.
As expected, his gaze turned sharp.
Ione shrank back, instinctively biting her lip.
“There hasn’t been a single peaceful night,”
he said, still soft but piercing.
“But you wouldn’t know that, would you?”
His quiet words struck like blades.
Then, suddenly, Ione remembered the night she took Penelope’s ring.
She had forgotten to ask why he came that night.
Was that why...?
Adrian was now standing right next to the bed—but he didn’t climb in.
He simply stared at her.
Ione didn’t want to look away, but found herself lowering her gaze like a guilty child.
“And besides,”
he said,
“we
are
husband and wife, aren’t we?”
As if sealing the deal with that one sentence, Ione could no longer resist.
“...Come in.”
They
were
married.
They shared a bed and, potentially, more than that.
As her thoughts trailed to their possible
first night
, her heart began racing uncontrollably.
Thump, thump, thump.
She worried it might actually burst.
Ione scooted as far to the edge of the bed as possible.
If he even touched her, she feared she might faint.
Did the original ‘Ione’ ever consummate the marriage?
The thought occurred to her far too late, and her mind went blank.
Why can’t I remember now?
Have I finally entered the original story?
She muttered to herself, but her attention was wholly on Adrian as he climbed into bed beside her.
He didn’t seem ready to sleep.
Instead, he leaned against the headboard and opened a thick book.
“...”
“Is something on your mind?”
he asked.
“Are you not going to sleep?”
“You go ahead first.”
He didn’t even glance at her as he spoke, and Ione felt her tension dissipate.
All that panic—completely unnecessary.
She had forgotten: This was Adrian van Preses.
The man who didn’t even care
this much
about Ione Clarke.
Who told me to get ahead of myself and drink the metaphorical champagne already?
She mocked herself, yanking the covers up to her chin.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
Still, she couldn’t relax completely.
Eyes shut, her ears strained to pick up every sound:
the rustle of pages, the whisper of turning sheets, the subtle shifts of fabric.
Another page...
She didn’t dare sneak a peek, lest he ask if something was wrong again.
He reads fast. That’s the second page...
Ah, I forgot to bring a book from the study earlier.
Rustle.
The crackling of the fireplace, the soft flutter of pages, the brush of clothes—
everything was still, warm, and calm.
Tomorrow...
Her thoughts slowly unraveled—until they disappeared completely.
A long sigh slipped from her lips.
It was the last thing she remembered.
Thump.
As soon as Ione fell asleep, Adrian closed the book.
He had been watching her the entire time.
Even the restless flicker of her eyes beneath her lids, before she dozed off—he saw it all.
He had watched everything.
And yet, he still couldn’t figure out what he had missed.
Ione had changed.
Now, even when she was asleep, the eerie stillness was gone.
Her complexion was paler than usual, yes—but she now held the subtle liveliness of the living.
What changed?
Adrian studied her obsessively.
He had climbed into bed not to sleep, but to examine her more closely.
And yet, there was still no sign of what he was looking for.
“Ione,”
he whispered softly.
Her eyelashes trembled.
That was new.
She never used to react when he called her.
“Ione.”
Even more—he could now clearly hear the steady beat of her heart without straining.
Something foreign still clung to her, but he couldn’t identify it.
It’s changing.
What if I search her magical signature again?
He’d already done that—thoroughly.
And nothing had turned up.
He didn’t intend to try again.
Some instinct told him it would still yield nothing.
His gut said the problem lay in her
left hand
.
And yet, there was nothing there.
Penelope.
The trick she played…
It was so subtle, so precise, that even his eyes had been deceived.
Who was it?
Who dared to toy with the bride of the man who bears the name of the Van Preses line?
The next day, Adrian summoned Orgen and gave him a quiet command.
“Keep an eye on every shop in the North that deals in magical artifacts.”