His gray-blue eyes, filled with twisted satisfaction, traced Eve’s neck. His hands, resting on her shoulders, slowly slid down her body. Rough fingertips touched bare skin. The woman froze at the contact—and the man whispered, as if she were his bride:
“Did you choose the dress yourself?”
Ethan lifted his gaze again, meeting her eyes. But he didn’t rush her for an answer, nor did he begin greedily groping her chest—where his hands had reached. He just silently looked into Eve’s eyes, clouded with sorrowful tears.
And the moment he clenched his teeth, both his hands dug into the neckline of her dress. Eve, instead of crying out or screaming in fear, gave him an icy look of contempt.
“Congratulations. You’ve become the same beast as Harry—the one you killed because you hated him so much.”
At that moment, the corners of Ethan’s mouth twitched convulsively. Through teeth clenched so tight they might crack, he ground out her name—as if crushing it syllable by syllable:
“Evelyn Anne Victoria Sherwood.”
Over this unfamiliar contempt with which he spoke her name, a ghostly voice from the past—full of love—overlaid itself.
“Lady Evelyn Anne Victoria Sherwood, will you marry me?”
Eve was still mourning her dead husband—whom she couldn’t let go of. In a distorted form. She should be in mourning now—not in a wedding dress.
“And you? How are you any different from your father, who only knew how to slander me?”
Ethan, as if returning her contempt, immediately grabbed her bodice roughly.
It was painful to watch the fall of someone she had once loved. Eve closed her eyes. The next moment came the tearing sound of fabric—and the night chill, arriving before the predator’s breath, touched her bare skin.
“White? Shameless.”
The wedding dress, torn to shreds, fell to the floor—like the last remnants of Ethan Fairchild’s humanity.
What beast would he become now? She tensed, expecting the next violation. But the hand that had pulled away didn’t touch her again. Heavy footsteps of army boots—shaking the floor—only retreated. Only then did Eve open her eyes.
At that moment, the door opened. In the flood of light, the man’s dark back disappeared.
Click.
The door closed, and Eve was plunged into silence—where she could no longer be alone, surrounded by the ghosts of the sensations he’d left behind.
Ethan Fairchild hadn’t raped Eve. Why did he change his mind at the last moment? Or had he only wanted to frighten her from the start? Whatever his intentions, it was clear he was a beast—one already beyond understanding.
Eve looked down at her feet. On the white dress she’d been planning to throw away anyway, a clear mark remained—he had trampled it.
It was a message of sorts.
That he would trample her second marriage underfoot too.
Let him trample all he wants.
Eve was fine with it—as long as he didn’t interfere with her plans.
Tony’s eyes, watching from the open window, sparkled with curiosity.
Normally, he’d already be nodding off through Dr. Callas’s tedious explanations. But today’s biology lesson had been canceled because the teacher had collapsed.
It would be great if that smoking uncle got the four-eyes drunk every time I had science class.
Tony sat on the windowsill, eating cherry tart, watching the smoker who even now held a cigarette in his hand.
A while ago, a truck had pulled up—men spilled out and started carrying things into the mansion. Since they were in civilian clothes, they must be gang members.
When they unloaded a painting covered in cloth from the truck, the boss—watching them while leaning against the driver’s door—warned:
“Don’t scratch the painting. It’s a priceless masterpiece.”
This man is a gang leader. They say he killed my brother, and then my father.
Because of that, in Tony’s imagination, Ethan Fairchild had been a hideous and ugly monster. Like all villains in fairy tales—because bad people couldn’t be beautiful.
This fairy-tale law of a black-and-white world had crumbled the moment he met Ethan Fairchild. The villain turned out to look like a fairy-tale prince. In a dashing Air Force officer’s uniform, no less.
But this wasn’t the end of the nine-year accumulation of shattered beliefs.
My sister was married to our family’s enemy?
Why? How did that happen?
The thought that his sister might also be bad didn’t occur to him. He hadn’t been close enough to his brother and father to take their side.
Tony was just curious. Because this man had made the always-elegant Eve throw cake in someone’s face.
Eve’s composure was like a solid fortress wall—not easy to break down. In the world, there was only one person who could break that wall—Tony himself.
But now there was a second.
What kind of person was this Ethan Fairchild?
The villain—who had seemed as clear as black and white—now became a chaotic mystery of an unidentifiable color.
He stared so intently that he didn’t notice the vanilla ice cream on the tart melting and dripping—and then he met the gaze of the smoker, who was raising another cigarette to his lips. At that moment, inspiration struck Tony—and he shouted:
“Cake-face!”
The man about to take a drag froze—and, squinting, looked at Tony.
“You’re the one Eve hit with cake! Ha-ha!”
“Your Grace, you’re the spitting image of Harry.”
Tony flared up as if slapped. Because Eve had called Harry the family’s disgrace.
“Tony, you’re so like Harry.”
Eve had said that to him too—but the meaning was different. He understood it was a warning: “If you behave badly, you’ll end up like Harry.” She was saying she was worried he might become like him.
But this guy had just insulted him—calling him “the same scoundrel as Harry.”
How dare this villain call him a scoundrel!
Time to show ducal dignity. Tony, as he’d seen familiar aristocrats do, raised his chin and put his hand behind his back.
“Didn’t your parents teach you manners?”
“And you, Your Grace—where did you learn manners, when you have no father and your mother is a leech?”
Before he could finish, the tart plate flew at him.
Clatter!
Ethan managed to step aside—and the plate shattered exactly where he’d been standing. Cherry puree and ice cream splattered everywhere.
“Damn…”
While he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the stains from his boots, the boy shouted:
“Be grateful! Cake is a luxury for a villain! Catch some seagull droppings, scoundrel!”
“Remarkable resemblance to Harry.”
And his end will be the same.
“Anthony Sherwood!”
Ethan’s head automatically turned toward the voice. In an open window on the other side of the courtyard stood Eve.
“Where did you learn such…”
“Eve, you’re the one who threw cake in that bad uncle’s face!”
“It’s dangerous to sit on the windowsill—get inside.”
Eve’s words seemed like a retreat—but her gaze didn’t retreat an inch. That coldness that could freeze the soul. Ethan knew that look.
Looks like when they’re alone, he’s going to get an earful.
The boy who seemed to fear nothing on earth apparently feared only his sister—and he sullenly closed the window and disappeared. Eve was about to turn away—but Ethan called out in faux-courtesy:
“Lady, our promised secret meeting is approaching—the one you promised before your holy wedding! I’ll diligently fill the void your groom couldn’t fill last night.”
Slam!
The window shut—and the moment Eve’s silhouette disappeared, the smirk on Ethan’s face evaporated as if it had never been there. As if the only audience had left—and there was no more need to perform.
“Fucking brat.”
He lifted the cloth, checking whether any dirt had gotten on the painting his men were carrying—and ground out a curse:
“All the Sherwoods are crazy, every last one.”
Tony is your son—just don’t let him realize it.
The moment she held her breath and watched them, Ethan said something to the child that he shouldn’t have:
“And you, Your Grace—where did you learn manners, when you have no father and your mother is a leech?”
Though it was an insulting statement, Eve’s tense nerves strangely relaxed.
Ethan suspects nothing at all. Perhaps because he was blinded by his thirst for revenge against Eve? She was even grateful for that cruel indifference he showed toward Tony.
She took out the box she’d kept in the deepest recess of the safe for a long time. Just meeting the past stored inside made her heart ache like an old wound.
Click.
Confirming what she needed was inside, she closed the box—as if sealing away the past. And walked down the corridor.
“No, a little higher. Yes, that’s good.”
Boom, boom!
The door to Harry’s bedroom—kept tightly shut like the entrance to a tomb since his death—was now wide open. People bustled through it with suitcases and boxes. This room was being prepared to receive a new ghost.
Harry’s bedroom was what Ethan had demanded.
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