"As I recall, *I* was the one who was notified of the separation. Or is my memory failing me?"
He watched Juliet blink silently when she noticed him—utterly unsurprised.
Lennox cast a glacial glance at the crowd surrounding her. They resembled a pack of vile jackals—and not a single one was worth remembering by face or name.
However, the moment these creatures—who could scarcely be called human by his standards—began hurling offensive remarks at *his* woman, it no longer mattered whether the offenders were human or beast.
A contemptuous chuckle escaped his lips.
He could barely restrain the urge to slaughter every last one of them. The anger flooding through him was so overwhelming he could scarcely contain it—these vermin dared insult a woman he couldn't even reach out to touch, terrified she would vanish before his eyes or turn her back on him again.
"Since when did you become so fascinated by my family's private affairs?"
Those who moments ago had been poised to descend on Juliet like ravenous jackals now hastily bowed their heads, faces drained of color.
"Oh—oh, there's been some terrible mistake, Your Grace…!"
"Precisely! We never—truly, we *never* intended—!"
"How do you suppose you can compensate me for daring to defame my family's honor with your filthy, forked tongues?"
But humiliation and mockery were not his preferred methods of exacting satisfaction. So…
"I will teach you the *only* way in which you may atone for your insignificant transgression."
***Ding!***
With lightning speed, Lennox seized the sword from the sheath of a guard standing nearby and hurled it to the floor.
"Pick it up."
The aristocrats he addressed instantly went green with nausea. The faces of everyone witnessing this spectacle blanched white as snow.
All who observed understood there was only one method to restore damaged honor.
Accept a duel at the risk of one's own life. In other words, they had just been politely informed they were about to be *legally* killed.
According to imperial law, killing during a sanctioned duel or during wartime was not considered a crime.
Moreover, the man standing before them had become renowned throughout the Empire as a master swordsman before his twentieth birthday.
Comprehending the full horror of their situation, people began screaming in terror.
"Oh no—I…!"
"What are you waiting for? The sword remains on the floor."
The calm, commanding voice was as low and quiet as ever.
Yet this voice sent violent tremors through the assembled crowd. They began glancing around in panic—like cattle in a slaughterhouse, desperately searching for an escape route and finding, to their profound regret, absolutely none.
Because the Duke, who had entered the banquet hall last, now stood with his back blocking the door.
"…I have committed a mortal sin!"
Finally, swiftly assessing the hopelessness of their predicament, the nobles realized there was no escape. They collapsed to their knees before the Duke and bowed their heads low.
Pleas and confessions of guilt erupted from every direction—but Lennox Carlisle's icy gaze did not soften in the slightest.
"It seems you haven't anything on your shoulders capable of thought, do you?"
"Ah…?"
"You don't even comprehend from *whom* you should be begging forgiveness. I believe the least I can do is relieve you of that superfluous weight."
***Whoosh.***
The Duke of Carlisle's black blade glittered with reflected chandelier light—as though poised to swing.
"W-what do you—"
Those who had frozen for a heartbeat grasped his meaning only moments later.
"Miss Montague! Please, have mercy!"
"Countess Montague! If you spare my life, I will do *anything*!"
The nobles whirled around and crawled on their knees toward Juliet, prostrating themselves before her.
It was a rather pathetic spectacle—but nothing remotely resembling sympathy appeared on Countess Montague's face as she gazed down upon them.
Despite their desperate, tear-streaked pleas, no response came from Juliet's lips.
"Is *that* the proper manner in which to beg forgiveness?" the man with the sword inquired casually, observing them.
Struck by his words, they raised their voices considerably, praying with renewed desperation.
"Oh, *please*! Miss Montague, I will never speak your name aloud again!"
"Yes! If you forgive me this once, I swear I will never—!"
"Please, I beg you—save us…!"
"Enough. You may stop begging."
The spectacle—which resembled some grotesque comedy staged for entertainment—only ceased when Juliet firmly commanded silence.
The Duke of Carlisle still appeared deeply dissatisfied, but Juliet swiftly concluded the matter.
"Get out. Right now."
"Thank you—thank you so much…"
"M-Miss Montague—no, *Countess* Montague—you cannot fathom how deeply grateful I am… if you would honor us by visiting our estate sometime—"
"Silence. Leave immediately."
As though fleeing on command, the humiliated aristocrats vanished from the hall in the blink of an eye, unwilling to remain a second longer.
After they fled and the door slammed shut behind them, the banquet hall stood nearly empty.
Apart from the palace guards and a handful of servants preparing for the evening's festivities, only the two of them remained.
Sheathing his sword, the man slowly crossed the expanse of polished marble.
When Lennox approached Juliet, who stood motionless, she seemed to already know what he would say.
*Everything is fine. Just stay calm, as always.*
"I didn't need your help."
Juliet spoke without smiling. Her voice so calm and quiet that only he could hear it. Lennox, hearing that subdued tone again, remembered how furious it used to make him every single time.
"So you would have simply continued listening to that *nonsense*?"
This occasion proved no exception.
"What remarkable tolerance. Even a saint would envy you."
He hadn't initially intended sarcasm.
However, the instant he glimpsed her pale face, he was overcome with rage.
*How long would she have sat there enduring those insults?*
But truthfully, he wasn't angry at *her*—he was furious with himself.
Before he even recognized this fact, sarcastic remarks had already begun spilling from his mouth.
"What the hell were you *thinking*—"
"What would you have done if you hadn't shown up?"
"What?"
"Your Grace."
Juliet sighed softly, then pushed away the hand he extended toward her. She regarded him with blank, emotionless eyes.
"Why are you pretending to care now?"
Though he was merely pretending concern, Juliet found herself genuinely curious why he bothered.
"Until now, you didn't."
"Juliet—"
"It didn't matter what people called me. It didn't matter where I was or what I heard. It didn't matter whose eyes I met…"
Juliet took half a step closer to him.
"You didn't care."
"Or perhaps I should—"
He wanted to say that perhaps he *had* cared. But seeing her eyes fixed upon him, the words lodged in his throat like broken glass.
"Now you don't need to pretend you care, either."
Juliet spoke softly and casually handed him the glass of wine she'd been holding.
"The same as always."
Lennox watched her eyelashes lower, concealing her gaze from him.
Then she reached out and gently adjusted his collar. But despite the intimate gesture, her subsequent words were cruel.
"Your Grace."
Juliet, who had been straightening his collar, lifted her eyes to his. The distance between them had become so close—as though she were about to kiss him.
"After all, we always knew."
Suddenly, Juliet smiled.
But for some inexplicable reason, this smile radiated piercing cold—like the frost of an early winter morning.
Lennox, unable to tear his eyes from her face, stared unblinkingly as though bewitched. He suddenly realized this strange expression was unmistakable *mockery*.
The realization came with difficulty—because Juliet had never before shown him such an expression.
"The real problem was never them."
Juliet glanced momentarily at the door through which the aristocrats had fled, then returned her gaze to him. Smiling again—though not quite as coldly—she took his hand.
And then she whispered to him with those sensual red lips, her voice unbearably tender.
"After all, over the past seven years, you were always there as an outside observer. And you yourself, at your own discretion, allowed me to fall or rise."
Lennox clenched his teeth in silence.
He gripped the wine glass so forcefully in his hand that the delicate crystal cracked. Scarlet liquid—either blood or wine, perhaps both—gushed out in a stream and pooled on the floor.
Looking at his injured hand, Juliet said quietly:
"So don't do it again."
---
Stories about the Duke of Carlisle were a frequent topic of discussion among the nobility.
The reason wasn't solely his actions, but also the tales surrounding his family—so dark and captivating that dozens of books could be written about them, capable of exceeding the wildest expectations of any aristocrat.
But Lennox Carlisle, who had been indifferent to others from birth, had never cared about public opinion regarding his reputation.
And naturally, he had assumed Juliet didn't care either—seeing her perpetually calm demeanor.
For twenty years, he had been absent from his family castle.
*When did this begin?*
Years after Juliet Montague came to reside in his ancestral fortress, the aides who had previously pestered him relentlessly about marriage finally quieted.
*[Your Grace, your lady would be delighted to attend a banquet with you at least once. Why not escort her?]*
This shift had only occurred after a loyal assistant mentioned it in passing. In other words, the Duke's household staff had long since begun quietly delegating domestic responsibilities to Juliet—already thinking of her as the future Duchess.
Initially, these were simple tasks: reviewing receipts from various estates, authorizing payments. Later, the duties evolved into more substantial responsibilities. When the master was away, she began handling urgent matters in his stead.
Then, in the northern territories, social events began occurring with increasing frequency—gatherings the lady of the house was expected to attend and, particularly, to organize.
"We asked Miss Juliet about this ourselves. She simply accepted our request."
Whether or not the assistant feared the Duke's anger, he immediately leaped to Juliet's defense without hesitation. Through this explanation, he meant to convey that she'd had no intention of usurping the Duchess's authority—that she had simply been compelled by circumstance.
While his assistant spoke, Lennox listened calmly.
"So, what I mean is…"
What the assistant was truly emphasizing was this:
Whenever Juliet appeared at a banquet unaccompanied, the guests made unflattering jokes and cruel remarks about her.
"So… could you appear with her at the banquet, at least this once?"
His assistant's reasoning for this request was straightforward.
People mocked Juliet because she occupied the precarious position of a mistress who could be discarded at any moment—and they felt this gave them license to ridicule her without consequence.
But was this truly accurate?
Around the same period, he had begun feeling both anger and concern for the woman who rarely smiled at him, no matter what he did for her.
And yet, despite the fact that her indifferent attitude irritated him, he didn't want another woman taking her place beside him.
He had eventually learned about the mistreatment from his assistant—because Juliet herself had never mentioned it.
Following that conversation, he attended the banquet, determined to witness the situation firsthand.
***Ding!***
But when Lennox belatedly entered the hall, he saw Juliet—having apparently shattered her glass—heading directly for the exit.
"Are you angry?"
Even when his gaze met Juliet's as she departed, he didn't immediately comprehend what she meant.
"If the mistress pretended to be the hostess, shouldn't she behave decently?" the woman inquired with an expression of such incredible composure that it was difficult to believe she had just broken a glass and walked away from the assembled guests.
But the direction of the question was wrong.
It wasn't Juliet's conduct that had made his expression turn frigid.
In truth, he was furious because he had realized, for the first time, that she would never tell him if something troubled her—if something unpleasant occurred.
And before he could ask what had happened, Juliet sighed softly and said:
"If you're not angry with me, then I'll go."
Any other woman would have already run to him, tearfully complaining about those who had mistreated her. But Juliet, conversely, never once mentioned the rumors that had surrounded her all this time.
So he wasn't certain whether he could broach the subject—and Juliet, in turn, remained silent.
As a result, he had continued behaving in his customary manner, simply because he didn't know what else to do.
He hadn't wanted to pressure Juliet unless absolutely necessary. And he had simply ensured that those who meddled where they shouldn't—who spoke without understanding—were never permitted to appear in the North again.
He had been satisfied with this quiet, efficient compromise—one that kept Juliet by his side without her ever looking at him with tear-filled eyes.
And all that time, he had believed everything was fine.
Until Juliet Montague left him.
Until she ran away.
---