Ophelia’s desperate excuse had been the large scar on her thigh. But by some cruel twist of fate, the Grand Duchess bore a distinct birthmark in that same spot.

In other words, it was proof not that she wasn’t the Grand Duchess, but rather that she was.

“Damn it.”

Leaving Ophelia’s room, Decar muttered a low curse. Rubbing the deep furrow between his brows with his fingertips, he exhaled a heavy sigh.

No matter how he tried to shake it off, the image of her pale thigh, exposed in panic as she yanked up her skirts, kept flashing before his eyes.

It wasn’t desire that stirred him, but anger.

She was a woman who had lived her whole life in comfort, untouched by hardship. He had wanted to let her keep living that way, yet the sight of her, soaked in rain and caked with mud in her desperate bid to flee, churned his insides.

The sting of anger scraped sharply against his skin. Fearing his imagination would stray, he knocked his forehead lightly with his fist.

Soon regaining his composure, Decar straightened his back. With long strides, he made his way to the study, where Hans awaited him.

“Hans. Investigate Ophelia’s whereabouts over the last three years. And that man’s as well.”

Decar’s voice came out in a low growl. Hans, taking a towel that had been set aside, handed it to him with a nod.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“…And see that she’s well cared for. She needs to grow accustomed to life here.”

So she would never again dare to think of running.

Pressing the dry towel against his half-damp hair, Decar spoke after a pause. His eyes, fixed on the empty air, were grim and severe.

***

Ophelia bathed in the warm water the servants had prepared for her. Emerging from the perfumed bath, the attendants dressed her swiftly in fresh clothes.

Gone were the shabby rags she had worn, which no amount of washing could rid of their stale, dusty smell. Now, she wore a soft dress carrying a gentle fragrance.

The attendants bustled in and out, and once they had gone, Ophelia sat blankly on the sofa, left alone in the room.

‘The so-called proof you offered isn’t very convincing.’

‘I, on the other hand, have plenty of proof you are my wife.’

That low voice echoed suddenly in her mind.

“What proof is there that I’m his wife….”

Ophelia pouted. She had said she wasn’t, yet he demanded proof otherwise.

Ophelia, who had lived her whole life as a commoner orphan, could not possibly be the Grand Duchess. One thing was certain, though—she had somehow been swept into a terrible misunderstanding with the Duke.

‘I suppose you’ll have to play the part of my wife.’

Those words echoed like an unshakable refrain. The voice itself—low, steady, almost pleasant—might have been easy to listen to, if not for what it said.

Burying her face in her palms, Ophelia let out a long sigh. Her thoughts were in such a tangle she thought she’d go mad.

“To act as the Grand Duchess….”

The closest she’d ever come to a noble was getting a glimpse of a viscount—the lord of Cedhar—from twenty meters away. To say she’d never seen one up close wouldn’t have been wrong.

What did Ophelia know of nobles, except that they were unbearably proud and strangled by endless etiquette?

And yet she was supposed to play the role of the Grand Duchess—not just any noblewoman, but the wife of a Duke, second only in rank to the Empress herself.

‘Until then, this mansion will be your home.’

The words that followed made her squeeze her eyes shut. 

Nonsense. How could this place be her home, and how could she dare play the part of the Grand Duchess?

A weary sigh escaped her lips.

“No, that’s not it. I just need proof.”

Opening her eyes wide with sudden determination, Ophelia lifted her head. Sitting around drained of energy would solve nothing.

She wasn’t the Grand Duchess. She just had to find proof of it, then collect proper compensation and leave.

The problem was how to find such proof.

As she pondered earnestly over the matter, an unfamiliar knock sounded at the door.

Startled, Ophelia’s eyes widened as she stared at the large door.

“Madam. It’s Hans. May I come in?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ophelia answered yes.

Hans stepped inside, accompanied by a woman Ophelia had never seen.

Ophelia instinctively folded her hands over her stomach, bracing herself. Though they meant no harm, the neatly dressed pair felt worlds apart from her.

Hans regarded her awkward posture with a conflicted expression.

“Madam, this is Chil. She will serve as your hands and feet from now on.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam. I look forward to serving you.”

Chil bowed with a composed smile.

“Ah… yes. Hello. I’m Ophelia.”

Ophelia bowed back, her movements awkward. Watching her, Hans quietly spoke.

“Madam, you mustn’t be so formal with the servants. It might appear as though you’re neglecting the dignity of the Grand Duchess.”

“…But I’m not the Grand Duchess.”

Ophelia pouted as she retorted.

“Of course I can’t uphold her dignity. I don’t even know what that means.”

Hans fell silent. Overcome with emotion, Ophelia spilled the words she had been holding back.

“The Duke told me to act as the Grand Duchess, but how could I possibly do that? It’s absurd. And what about his promise? That if proof comes out that I’m not her, he’ll send me home. How am I supposed to trust that?”

Her pent-up frustration burst forth. To Ophelia, the whole ordeal was nothing less than a sudden disaster. Her ordinary life had been upended—she had been kidnapped overnight, threatened, her fate rewritten. All because of the Duke’s misunderstanding.

Her voice trembled at the end, wet with tears. Meeting her tearful gaze, Hans couldn’t quite hide his dismay.

Her tone and demeanor felt far too genuine. With a face so like the Grand Duchess’, her assertion of her own identity seemed painfully sincere. The sharp dissonance of it unsettled Hans.

‘Is she acting? Or… could it be that she truly isn’t the Grand Duchess?’

The thought struck him suddenly, and Hans stiffened.

‘Could that even be possible? She looks exactly the same.’

He dared not reach a conclusion. His role, he decided, was to remain neutral, setting aside doubt and mistrust.

“If you truly are not the Grand Duchess, then—as His Grace promised—you will be able to return home.”

“How can I believe that?”

Ophelia asked with sharp eyes. 

Hans hesitated, then chose his words carefully.

“…His Grace has kept the Grand Duchess’ position vacant all this time. That is hardly common for a man in his position.”

Among the nobility, when a wife vanished, it was common to have her declared missing and remarry for the sake of an heir. 

But Decar had not. He had searched relentlessly for his lost wife instead.

Though many assumed his persistence was mere pretense and pressed him to remarry, he refused outright.

It wasn’t as if he and his wife had shared a marriage of love, and so, as time passed, more and more people pressed or criticized him. An heir was no trivial matter for a duke. But Decar did not budge.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It means, Madam, that your existence holds tremendous weight for His Grace. Perhaps far more than you realize.”

At Hans’ answer, Ophelia suddenly remembered the sight of his bloodshot eyes, filled not only with anger but something heavier.

Unconsciously, she held her breath and blinked.

“I believe His Grace has his reasons…. Though I cannot say what they are, at the very least, what you fear will not come to pass.”

Hans said gently.