A bitter season had set in.
Ryan arrived before the ducal mansion, treading upon untouched snow.
Two years.
He had returned at last after two long years.
Unlike the man he had once been, he stood several inches taller, his features sharper, his frame now broad and formidable.
No one looking at Ryan now would have imagined he had suffered from an incurable illness only two years ago.
“Y-Young Master?”
A maid caught sight of him, the color draining from her face.
She rushed inside to announce his return, and the once-quiet mansion soon stirred with commotion.
Ryan stood waiting for one person alone to emerge.
Anasta Winterlit.
His wife.
‘I want to be a husband you can be proud of.’
Two years ago, he had left her, leaving behind only a single letter.
To ease whatever resentment she harbored, Ryan had written to her once every six months, yet no reply had ever come.
Even so, he believed she had read his letters, often picturing Anasta tracing his handwriting as a light breeze stirred the air.
‘Anasta.’
Today, he had returned to the estate. Just as promised, he had returned as a husband she would not be ashamed of.
“Ryan!”
The first to welcome him was the Duke, his eyes brimming with tears.
The Duke hurried past the threshold without even putting on a coat, throwing his arms around his son, who now stood taller than him by half a head.
“I am glad—so glad you returned safely!”
“Ah, yes.”
Ryan answered coldly, his expression distant, as his gaze swept over the figures trickling out the doors one by one.
The head maid, Paul the head butler, and even his stepmother, who emerged with obvious reluctance.
Looking at his stepmother sickened him, but Anasta came first.
“Where is my wife?”
Ryan asked bluntly.
“Ryan.”
“I do not see my wife, Father.”
· · ·
“Anasta Winterlit. No… Anasta Soltaire.”
At Ryan's words, the Duke pulled back his hands. “Your wife? …You two never held a legal wedding.”
“What do you mean? I signed the marriage registry two years ago and handed it over the day I departed for the military.”
· · ·
Seeing the silence fall between the Duke and his stepmother, a sense of foreboding seized him.
“Where is Anasta right now?”
“…Ryan.”
“I must go to the annex immediately—”
As Ryan brushed off the Duke's hand and moved to take a step, a voice broke out.
“She ran away.”
Ryan's massive frame froze in mid-stride.
“She could not bear it any longer and fled. That was a year ago.”
His piercing glare shifted toward the Duchess, who was delivering news of Anasta.
“You went to the army of your own accord. Left all alone, Anasta simply could not endure it.”
· · ·
“She said she had fallen out of love with you. She suffered so much after first arriving at this estate.”
“Do not speak such nonsense.”
“If you do not believe me, see for yourself. There must still be a letter she left behind in the annex.”
Ryan's pupils trembled like churning waves.
“Ryan!”
“Young Master!”
Ryan bit down hard on his trembling lip, brushing past the Duke as he rushed toward the annex.
With furious strides that matched the violent hammering of his heart, he reached the annex in the blink of an eye and threw open the door to the room where Anasta used to stay.
No one was there—only the bitter winter wind swept through.
“Anasta?”
He called her name tentatively and looked around. Bare floorboards, completely stripped of furniture; a desolate room utterly devoid of human warmth.
· · ·
Like a violent gale rattling the window, a sharp edge of despair drove into Ryan's chest.
Why, in God's name?
“E-Excuse me…”
A maid approached hesitantly from behind his despondent form.
When Ryan looked up, she held out a letter to him.
“A year ago… the lady asked that this be given to you.”
Ryan snatched the letter away.
‘Thank you for everything.’
It was Anasta's final farewell, signaling their parting. At the sight of her distinct handwriting, Ryan's gaze wavered violently.
“Ha.”
A bitter scoff escaped Ryan's lips.
—“She ran away.”
With the Duchess's voice echoing in his mind, the cruel memories of that winter two years ago flickered past like still images.
Two years ago.
Beneath the chandelier, a woman stood as rigid as a doll.
“She is as lovely as the rumors say. This will do nicely.”
The Duchess finally parted her lips after scrutinizing Anasta from head to toe.
It was a dry, unenthusiastic assessment for someone possessing remarkable beauty and intelligence, yet the Count and his wife standing beside her were overcome with joy.
“You said she is twenty?”
“She is a modest child. In fact, she has never even known the touch of a man. She will never do anything to disappoint Madam or the young master.”
“Hmm…”
“Look here, Madam!”
When the Duchess hesitated, the Count grabbed Anasta's arm as though handling a mannequin.
“Her hair is thick, and her skin is as fair as a babe's! Most importantly, she has never fallen ill. Her constitution is strong, so she will have no trouble bearing children.”
“Is that so? You have truly never been sick, child?”
The Duchess narrowed her eyes, quietly observing Anasta's reaction.
Her bright, intelligent green eyes seemed innocent enough to know no deceit, yet they remained steady, without a flicker of doubt.
Looking closely, the quiet aura radiating from her slender frame possessed an unusual resilience.
A faint smile touched the Duchess's lips.
She detested insolent defiance that did not know its place, but she welcomed patient fortitude that understood boundaries.
And Anasta was clearly the latter.
“You are slow to answer.”
“I have taken a fall and hurt myself before, but I recovered quickly. I will never do anything to disappoint Madam or the young master.”
“You have the constitution my son needs. You are well aware of his condition, are you not?”
He is dying.
The thought crossed Anasta's mind.
That the second son of the Soltaire ducal house, Ryan Soltaire, was in failing health was something known even to nobles who rarely attended social gatherings.
A sudden illness had struck him at seventeen, abruptly cutting short what had promised to be a brilliant future.
Ryan Soltaire's name, once praised for its distinction, had turned into an object of pity overnight.
The noble ladies who had once vied to marry him now regarded him as worse than a lowly commoner, and the gentlemen who had clung to him for favor feigned ignorance and whispered behind his back.
Three years later, quiet rumors spread that the ducal family was seeking a bride for Ryan Soltaire.
A bride in name, but in truth, they were searching for a nurse or maidservant to care for an ailing twenty-year-old.
Even so, plenty covetously eyed the prestige of Duke Soltaire's name.
Naturally, those blinded by greed for a handsome dowry readily threw their hands up to marry Ryan.
Anasta's parents were among them.
Raised in a penniless count's estate amidst deep poverty, she had been brought up from childhood not as a daughter, but as a tool to be wed.
Today was the day she had to play her part.
“Since his illness worsened, his temper has grown very foul. He hates being spoken to and flies into a rage at the slightest touch. If he hears anyone whispering behind his back, he loses control completely, to the point where the maids refuse to go near him.”
“I will always mind my words.”
“Yes, that is how it should be.”
The Duchess smiled with satisfaction.
“Then, Madam… will you take Anasta as a bride for your son?”
“I believe that even if I searched further, it would be difficult to find someone as suitable as Anasta.”
“Of course!”
The Count and Countess beamed broadly, seeing their prize within reach.
“However, we will have a six-month probationary period. Too many women flee the moment the marriage contract is stamped.”
“B-But the young master…”
‘Is he not going to die soon anyway?’
The words nearly slipped from the Count's mouth, but catching himself in time, he held his tongue.
“Will the marriage take place after six months, then?”
“Before that, I intend to take Anasta to nurse Ryan. Since they have never met, it would be best for them to grow close before the wedding.”
She phrased it delicately, but it was essentially dumping the burdensome chore of caring for a dying son entirely onto Anasta's shoulders.
“In return, I will send the agreed-upon dowry and gold coins to the count's estate once a month. What do you think of this amount?”
The Duchess handed the Count a draft she had received from the butler.
The Count was disappointed that the dowry would not be paid all at once, but his eyes widened at the row of zeroes printed on the paper.
“Th-This amount…”
“I have taken a liking to Anasta, so I added a little extra. Once the trial period is over and Anasta becomes my son's wife, I will look after you even more generously. Even in the event of his passing, the Winterlit family will receive further compensation. Is this not enough?”
The Count and his wife shook their heads vigorously.
How could they possibly be dissatisfied?
“Please, take Anasta with you, Madam.”
Faced with gold and a lavish dowry, the couple did not hesitate for a moment.
They were overjoyed that their youngest daughter, whom they had raised, was being sold off to such an illustrious family.
END
