"I know I was wrong. Please forgive me this time. I will make it up to you later. I won't let you down again. Answer my letter—I miss you terribly and want to see you, my dear Liv. I love you, and only you."
Liv read the letter, her lips curving just slightly—not the flower-filled smile of the girl she once was. At that moment, she did not care at all.
Her gaze shifted to the smoke curling from the iron brazier in the corner. Several old portraits—hers and Andrey's—burned slowly. She inhaled the smoke without guilt.
Andrey, his love, his words, their memories—none of it held power over her anymore. Liv had stopped caring. There was no Andrey in her world now, only her own strength and the plans for her future.
All this time Liv had done a great deal for Andrey and his family—not because they deserved it, but because her status and wealth far exceeded the Ericksons'. The money she gave had been squandered by Andrey on pleasures and other women. Their ingratitude stoked Liv's ire.
This time she would not act hastily. She would wait for the right moment to destroy the Erickson family—but not before her marriage to the Duke was secured.
At the dinner table, the mood was tense. Leon glanced at Liv and asked cautiously, "Liv, you're not planning to pull investments from their family business, are you?"
"Not yet," Liv replied curtly.
The Marchioness looked at her daughter, concern in her eyes.
"Liv, you've gained nothing from this relationship so far. What if I handle it—restructure your investments?" she offered gently.
Liv exhaled, weighing the words.
"I know you and Leon are worried. But let me handle it."
The Marchioness and Leon exchanged looks, then turned their attention back to Liv. There was newfound confidence in their gaze.
"For now, focus on the wedding. Tomorrow we will meet the Duke," Liv said, decisive.
"I'm only afraid that something might go wrong," the Marchioness replied softly.
Liv shrugged lightly.
"Ignore me for the moment, Mother. Let them breathe a little before they fall apart."
Beneath her words lay a cold threat: Liv would not rush to topple them now—she would wait until the moment was perfect.
It was the appointed day—the day when Duke Zareth arrived with his parents, the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess of Zelthar. The Marquess' castle buzzed with activity, servants hurrying to prepare for the arrival of the most powerful noble family in the Empire.
Liv stood in the grand hall, wearing a soft silver gown that made her pale skin gleam under the chandeliers. Her fingers trembled slightly, though her face remained calm—a flawless porcelain mask. She knew how crucial this meeting was. Not merely for the alliance or the marriage contract—but because of the man's name: Jay Alexander de Zelthar.
When the steady, measured footsteps of the Duke echoed from the end of the hall, time itself seemed to slow. The murmurs around her faded, leaving only the rhythmic sound of polished boots on marble.
And then she saw him.
The man who entered the hall was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a dark coat bearing the Zelthar crest. His jet-black hair framed his face perfectly, accentuating the pallor of his skin. But what captured her completely were his crimson eyes—cold, commanding, yet holding a trace of something softer, hidden beneath layers of restraint.
The same eyes.The same gaze.The last thing she had seen… before the blade fell and ended her life.
Liv's breath hitched. She stared at him, almost afraid to blink, as if doing so would make him disappear—or worse, prove that this was real.
Duke Zareth stopped before her, inclining his head slightly in polite greeting.
"Lady Liv Albrecht," his deep voice carried through the hall—steady, distant, yet laced with a weight she couldn't quite name.
Liv's lips curved faintly.
"Your Grace, Duke Zareth de Zelthar," she replied, her tone graceful yet taut with tension.
For a moment, silence stretched between them—thick, suffocating, electric.
Two souls bound by a fate that refused to die.
And in that silence, Liv understood:Fate was not done with her yet.
The grand hall of Marquess Albrecht's castle was filled with the scent of white blossoms and the soft fragrance of incense.Liv stood beside her mother, the Marchioness, while the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess of Zelthar sat upon the seats of honor.
Beside them stood Duke Zareth—Jay Alexander de Zelthar—his posture straight, his gaze unreadable.
The air was so still that even the sound of breathing could be heard clearly.
The Grand Duchess smiled gracefully."So, this is Lady Liv Albrecht… my son's betrothed. I've heard many good things about you, dear."
Liv bowed respectfully."It is an honor to finally meet Your Grace, the Grand Duchess of Zelthar."
"Raise your head, my dear," said the Grand Duchess gently. "You are quite beautiful. No wonder Zareth didn't refuse this engagement."
Liv gave only a faint smile, while Zareth cast a brief, sidelong glance toward his mother—his face expressionless, yet his crimson eyes flickered toward Liv for a moment.
The Grand Duke, who had remained silent until then, finally spoke. His deep, commanding voice filled the room.
"The Albrecht family has long been an ally of the Empire. We value this bond deeply. Zareth, have you spoken with Lady Liv before today?"
Zareth turned, his gaze locking onto Liv's.
"No, Father. But I intend to do so today."
Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, Liv felt her breath falter.There was something behind those red eyes—cold, yet… knowing.
"In that case," said the Grand Duchess with a soft smile, "do talk. We would like to see how well you suit each other."
After the formal introduction in the grand hall, both the Albrecht and Zelthar families agreed to give the couple some privacy—to "get to know each other better."A private dinner was arranged in the eastern wing of the castle, just for the two of them.
Minutes passed. Only the faint clinking of silverware and the ticking of the clock could be heard.Liv didn't dare meet his gaze, though she could feel it—steady, quiet, and heavy, like mist wrapping around her.
Finally, Zareth spoke.
"You seem calm."
Liv set down her fork slowly.
"Should I not be, Your Grace?"