Chapter 86: Damian’s Fury
Damian stepped into the main estate with a weary expression. He had come at the sudden summons of the Duchess.
Lately, his complexion had been noticeably poor. Ever since returning to the main house, he had been tormented by nightmares and unable to sleep properly.
Why do I keep dreaming of that day…
Damian frowned deeply.
He was plagued by dreams that showed him the moment of his mother’s death, over and over again. They left him in a foul mood.
So much so that the slightest provocation might make him explode. He himself could feel just how close to the edge he was.
With a long exhale, he happened to notice a maid walking down the hallway from the opposite direction.
It was Audrey—Aracila’s personal maid.
Damian glanced at her without much thought, ready to look away. But then something caught his eye: the dress in her hands.
That’s… Mother’s dress.
He recognized it instantly. It was one his mother had worn often in her lifetime.
Damian stopped Audrey just as she was about to bow politely and pass by.
“Where are you taking that dress?”
“Pardon? Ah—some wine was spilled on it, so I’m taking it to be laundered.”
“…What?”
The moment Damian heard that his mother’s dress had been ruined, his expression hardened. He took the garment from Audrey’s arms and examined it closely.
A substantial amount of wine had been spilled. Nearly half the hem was soaked and stained.
No matter how carefully it was washed, it was unlikely the stain could be removed completely. And the fabric itself might suffer damage in the process.
Already on edge from his recent nightmares, which had kept his mother constantly on his mind, Damian was deeply shaken.
The Duchess had often taken pleasure in destroying his mother’s belongings right before his young eyes—so he was especially sensitive to such things.
And now, another of his mother’s keepsakes had been ruined.
The helplessness of those days came rushing back, twisting his brow.
“Who had this dress? And who spilled the wine?”
“Ah… well…”
Audrey floundered at the growling edge in Damian’s voice, her eyes darting about.
She hadn’t witnessed the full scene. She had only entered the drawing room when summoned, and by then the wine bottle had already shattered on the floor, and Aracila was holding the soaked dress.
“My lady was holding it… I don’t know exactly how the wine got spilled. It looked like the bottle had fallen to the floor…”
Audrey recounted what she saw as truthfully as possible, trying not to create any misunderstandings.
But the mere mention of the dress being in Aracila’s hands made Damian’s brow twitch.
“Where is she now?”
His tone was nearly a demand. Caught off guard, Audrey quickly pointed toward the drawing room.
At that moment, Yona burst out of the drawing room.
When she saw Damian holding the dress, her eyes widened in shock. She scurried away almost at a run.
Damian didn’t spare her a glance. Still clutching the dress, he marched straight into the drawing room—and there, met Aracila just as she was walking toward the door.
It was the most furious expression she had ever seen on him.
Aracila, bewildered, couldn’t understand why he had the dress Audrey had taken away, nor why he looked so furious.
“Damian, why do you look like that—?”
“How did this dress end up in your hands?”
Damian immediately thrust the dress toward her. His voice was low and taut.
Aracila glanced down briefly at the dress, then answered calmly,
“I just received it as a gift from Viscountess Panning. She said she used to be close to your mother. Do you recognize it—?”
“Then you’re the one who ruined it?”
If the dress had come from one of his mother’s old friends, that in itself wasn’t particularly strange. Perhaps she’d kept it as a keepsake of their friendship.
Damian’s anger was rooted in one thing alone: the fact that, regardless of how the dress had come into her hands, she had failed to treat his mother’s dress with the care it deserved.
“I didn’t technically spill the wine… Why are you suddenly—?”
“Why did you carelessly ruin it?!”
For the first time, Damian raised his voice at her directly.
Aracila’s eyes widened in shock.
Startled and flustered, she let slip something she instantly regretted.
“I mean, why are you yelling over a dress like that?”
From Aracila’s perspective, it was an honest question. She truly didn’t understand why he was this enraged over a mere dress, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them.
But to Damian, it sounded utterly different.
To him, it sounded like she was belittling his mother’s dress—as if it meant nothing.
“A dress like that? Did you just say it’s a dress like that?”
His grip on the garment tightened.
At any other time, he might have paused, might have reasoned things out or tried to talk it through.
But not now. Not when he was already so frayed from sleepless nights and worn down by nightmares.
And certainly not when someone had touched his greatest vulnerability—his mother.
“That dress belonged to my mother. It’s a keepsake. A relic.”
“…What?”
Aracila’s breath caught.
The revelation stunned her. For a moment, she was completely speechless, then she shook her hands hastily, her face pale with alarm.
“I didn’t know… I swear, I had no idea. I didn’t do it on purpose…”
“Then why would you speak so carelessly?! Even if it were just a meaningless dress, does that justify ruining it?!”
Damian’s voice lashed at her like a whip. Emotionally raw, he had reverted to the sharp and cold tone he had once used when they were still wary strangers.
“If I hadn’t run into your maid carrying it, you would’ve just tossed it aside like nothing. Isn’t that right?”
The accusation, nearly a declaration, made Aracila shake her head forcefully in protest.
“No! Absolutely not! Damian, I’m sorry. I truly didn’t know it was your mother’s. I am sorry—but why won’t you even listen to me before you get angry?!”
If she’d truly meant to ruin it out of spite, she might have understood his fury.
But it hadn’t even been her who spilled the wine—it was Yona.
Yet he wouldn’t even hear her out.
Had she only imagined the distance between them narrowing?
She could understand why he’d be upset, but his refusal to even give her a chance to speak hurt more than she’d expected.
“You think I did it on purpose? I didn’t know. It was just a mistake! And I wasn’t even the one who ruined it—!”
“That’s enough. If I keep talking with you right now, I’ll end up saying things I regret.”
Damian abruptly cut her off.
Aracila, about to raise her voice again, hesitated.
His expression—tight with strain—had grown noticeably gaunt.
When had he become like this?
He’d always had sharp features, but this was different. His jawline was too pronounced now, the hollows of his face sunken. He looked emaciated.
As Aracila took in the dark shadows under his eyes, Damian stared silently at the ruined dress.
Then, in a voice thick with suppressed emotion, he muttered:
“Of course. What would someone like you understand.”
“…What did you just say?”
“You’ve lived a soft, easy life—like a flower in a greenhouse. How could you possibly understand? You can’t even begin to imagine what I’m feeling right now.”
Raised in a loving family, with kind parents, a sister and a brother, Aracila had never known the kind of life he had lived.
She would never understand what that dress meant to him—how something so small could weigh on his chest heavier than stone.
As Aracila stood there, unable to form a response, Damian turned abruptly and left without another word.
She didn’t stop him.
Left alone, she whispered to the empty room:
“…Who said I had it easy…”
***
From that day forward, a cold wall grew swiftly between Aracila and Damian.
It was the kind of chill that made one wonder if a marriage between strangers might’ve been warmer.
In truth, Aracila had tried a few times—to apologize again, to open conversation—but Damian had refused her each time, and eventually, her pride flared.
You think I’m the only one upset? I’m angry too, you know!
That thought pushed her to pull away. And once the distance had grown, it became impossible to bridge again.
So the two only saw each other when absolutely necessary, avoiding each other so completely that even Colin and Audrey began to worry.
And when the Duchess heard of the cold war between them, she broke into a wide, delighted smile.
“At last… things are going just as I wanted.”
With a smug smile playing on her lips, she let a maid file her nails in silent satisfaction.
If anyone knew better than anyone else what Damian’s greatest weakness was—it was her.
Using the late Duchess to drive a wedge between the married couple had been a wise decision.
From the beginning, it had been the Duchess’s plan to use Yona to get close to Aracila. She had specifically instructed her to gift the dress—and to ensure it was ruined.
The original intent had been to show Damian the damaged dress once it had been discarded, using it as a trigger.
But running into the maid on her way to the laundry hadn’t been a bad outcome either.
“Lady Panning… and you as well—both deserve some praise.”
The Duchess shifted her gaze.
Standing beside her with hands respectfully folded was the head maid.
“Thanks to your timely switch of the candles, the boy’s mind has begun to crack, hasn’t it?”
“It was all due to your brilliance, my lady. I merely followed your wise instruction.”
“Hoho, is that so?”
The Duchess smiled, clearly pleased.
In order to trigger Damian’s trauma, she had secretly mixed a memory-stirring herb into one of the candles through the head maid.
As long as Damian kept the candle lit to brighten his room, the scent would slowly and subtly permeate his consciousness.
“Hugo’s daughter made a foolish choice and now carries the disgrace of being a divorcée. That’s her karma.”
With a twisted smile, the Duchess began scheming how she might use this growing rift to push the couple toward divorce.
“Mother and son alike—they’ll meet the same pathetic end, with no one left at their side.”
She believed it with quiet certainty.
***
When a person is burning with resentment, sleep becomes impossible.
Ever since the rift with Damian had widened, Aracila had found herself too upset to close her eyes.
She would try to sleep, only to throw off her blanket in frustration and sit up again.
“Does he really not know I’m not the kind of person to do that?”
They hadn’t married for love, but after living as husband and wife for several months, surely they’d come to understand something about each other by now.
Aracila wasn’t the kind of person to treat another’s treasured possessions carelessly.
Yes, calling it “just a dress” had been her mistake—but it was nothing more than a slip of the tongue. She hadn’t meant any harm.
And yet, over a single misspoken phrase, Damian had flown into a rage without even hearing her out—and left her standing there.
He even avoided every attempt she made to reconcile.
Just this evening, Aracila had tried to talk to him after dinner.
“Damian, can we talk?”
“I’m tired. Let’s talk later.”
“When later? What hour, what minute, what second?”
“Don’t be childish. I’ll come to you once I’ve calmed down. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you remained quiet.”
And with that, he left—cutting her off like it was nothing. Aracila had stood there, stunned.
Stay quiet? What am I, a doll?
Now she could feel anger boiling up inside her too.
They were still a married couple—was it really acceptable to avoid conversation to this degree?
And that wasn’t all.
“I’ve always forgiven him whenever he apologized.”
So why was it that he could never do the same?
Of course, just because she had always been the one to give in didn’t mean he was obligated to do the same. But still… just this once, couldn’t he have met her halfway?
“Ugh, I’m so annoyed I can’t sleep.”
Tossing and turning, Aracila finally sat up with a huff.
If this injustice kept festering inside her, she wouldn’t be able to sleep even after returning to the capital.
And at this rate, she wasn’t even sure she’d make peace with Damian before then.
“No. I can’t live like this anymore.”
Unable to stand the suffocating frustration, Aracila threw off her covers and got out of bed.
She wrapped a shawl over her nightgown and headed straight out of the room.
Her destination—Damian’s quarters.
Knock knock.
“Damian, it’s me. Open the door.”
She knocked on his door like a debt collector come to reclaim what was owed.
As expected, there was no response.
After a few more tries, she gave up and simply grabbed the doorknob.
There was no way she could sleep until she said what she needed to say. Even if it was rude, she would find him and settle this.
He must be asleep.
Damian was lying flat on his back, perfectly still on the bed.
Aracila deliberately shut the door with a loud thud—half in irritation, half in the hope that it would wake him.
But he didn’t move.
So he sleeps peacefully while I stew in anger? Must be nice.
Grumbling inwardly, Aracila suddenly paused.
Wait… could a Sword Master really fail to notice someone making this much noise?
It wasn’t as if Damian was naturally dull. She’d stomped her way in and slammed the door—and yet he hadn’t stirred at all. That was strange.
And when she remembered how haggard he had looked that very morning, like he hadn’t slept properly, the unease in her chest grew stronger.
She approached the bed.
A familiar scent hit her nose—thick and oddly floral. It was the same faint fragrance she’d noticed before in his room.
Where have I smelled this before…?
The scent was sweet like flowers, but with a biting sharpness beneath it. Familiar, but just out of reach.
She inhaled deeply through her nose. The sharp floral scent filled her lungs. She was on the edge of remembering.
I know I’ve smelled this somewhere before…
Lost in thought, she was suddenly interrupted by a faint, ragged voice.
“…No… Mother…”
She looked down.
Damian was gripping the blanket tightly, his brow deeply furrowed. In his sleep, he was calling out to his mother—clearly in the grip of another nightmare.
Watching him writhe in pain, Aracila’s expression softened, a trace of concern settling on her face.
And then, in that moment—
She remembered what the scent was.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ✧: *. ꕥ .* :✧ﾟ. ───
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