While You're In Love

As Aslan met Lyla’s moistened eyes, he pursed his lips. He wanted to clarify the misunderstanding right away. But he couldn’t utter a proper sentence.

It wasn’t the right time yet. He wasn’t prepared.

He wanted to express his honest feelings after everything was over, once the chaotic affairs were sorted out.

He hasn’t exact ruthless revenge on Glock, who had tormented her. He hadn’t even captured him yet, and now wasn’t the time, especially with the news that his mother, who had been confined to the monastery, might be suffering from a fatal illness.

That’s why he brushed off Lyla, saying they should talk again tomorrow.

Even though he could feel Lyla’s desperate gaze on his back, he ran away.

For now, he put everything else aside and focused on the urgent matters planned for today before trying to console her.

It wasn’t a lie.

Recently, he had discovered traces indicating that Glock had returned here again.

He must have come to find Rosalyn. They had a deep past connection, so he might use that past to blackmail her.

Whatever the reason, it’s clear that Glock was looking forward to meeting Rosalyn to use her.

The whole point of going out with Rosalyn today was to use her as bait to lure Glock in.

However, before they could accomplish anything, he ended up running away first.

‘Still, he’s like a rat in a trap now.’

Aslan’s eyes gleamed with mockery. Even if he ran, he was in his grasp.

Glock Larestine would be captured by him, and he would pay the price he had failed to pay three years ago. Three years overdue with interest.

“It’s strange.”

My mood, which had been slightly exhilarated by the thought of destroying Glock, had turned nervous again.

Now that his insides were churning, Aslan urged the carriage driver. The driver hurriedly responded to the unusual urgency of his usually calm master.

Although it was a faster journey back than usual, Aslan’s furrowed brow showed that he wasn’t pleased.

When he arrived at the mansion, it was already dusk.

The servants hurriedly greeted him, clearly surprised by his early return.

Aslan averted his dry gaze from them, directing his question to Dalton, who had come closer.

“Where is my wife?”

“Milady…”

Aslan was irritated by the butler’s vague response. He couldn’t hide his annoyance and snapped at him.

“You don’t even know where your duchess is or what she’s doing.”

“I apologize. I will find out immediately.”

Dalton bowed deeply, almost touching the ground, and apologized.

Aslan glared at Dalton with displeasure. He was annoyed that they couldn’t even properly track the whereabouts of someone who never left the mansion.

“Never mind.”

If Dalton, who was efficient in handling matters, was given a little time, he would soon find out what Aslan wanted to know. But Aslan couldn’t afford to wait patiently.

Aslan checked his watch. It was close to midnight.

“It’s her time to sleep.”

His wife had a delicate health and went to bed early.

In the early days of their marriage, she used to wait near the entrance, no matter what time he returned.

But ever since Aslan discovered her pitiful figure, dozing off even when she faced the cold air, he forbade her from waiting up for him after eleven o’clock.

Since then, such incidents no longer occurred.

Returning home, unable to see his wife was regrettable, but it was better than her being in distress. Above all, he felt reassured knowing that she was always sound asleep in their dimly lit bedroom.

Today wouldn’t be any different.

Yes, she would definitely be there.

But why was he so restless?

A strange premonition wrapped around him. Aslan hesitated but eventually left his study.

As he ascended to the second floor where his wife’s bedroom was located, he saw a distinct shadow flickering on the staircase.

Aslan instinctively formed a sincere smile and tried to call his wife.

However, the person coming down was not the one he had hoped for.

“You came early? Didn’t you say you had something to do earlier?”

“…”

The smile disappeared from Aslan’s face as he glanced briefly at Rosalyn, who was speaking to him.

Even in the dimly lit space, her face, with neatly arranged red hair, shone brightly. But to Aslan, it was a light that didn’t matter.

“Yes.”

Aslan uttered a monotonous and short response, brushing past Rosalyn, who looked at him with expectant eyes.

Rosalyn’s face turned red at the blatant disregard. With a tinge of embarrassment, she swiftly whirled around.

But Aslan was nowhere to be seen in the stairwell as he strode away at a brisk pace.

---

Normally, he would never do such a thing, but Aslan climbed the stairs two steps at a time, swiftly reaching the Duchess’s bedroom. But once he arrived in front of Lyla’s bedroom, he lingered outside the door.

Knowing that Lyla had become sensitive recently, he didn’t want to disturb her sleep. Even if he entered quietly without knocking, he was certain she would wake up immediately upon sensing his presence.

Perhaps it would be better to leave now and come to see her in the morning.

As Aslan attempted to turn around, the ominous premonition that had been poking at him since earlier caught hold of his ankle.

Unable to resist the impulse any longer, Aslan grasped the doorknob and turned it.

Creak.

With a small sound, the door opened. Aslan held his breath and tried not to make any noise as he entered the room shrouded in deep darkness.

And just a few steps in, he noticed something was amiss.

…There was no sound coming from the room.

Unable to contain his restlessness, Aslan murmured,

“Wife.”

No response.

Aslan raised his voice.

“Wife…!”

Only a dreadful silence filled the room.

Aslan searched the room frantically, like a madman.

He pulled the perfectly arranged flat bedcovers that couldn’t possibly hide anything. Naturally, there was nothing underneath.

Swoosh!

He swung open the closet door where she usually kept her frequently worn clothes. There was nothing but half-filled hangers. He pushed each piece of clothing aside, hoping to find a hidden person, but there was no one.

He scattered all the books on the shelf and roughly opened the drawers as if he intended to break them. The dresser wobbled, but he paid no attention.

It was a desperate urgency, a craving to find anything.

He didn’t even know what he was searching for, but engulfed in a disconcerting restlessness, Aslan didn’t stop his movements.

And as he opened the last drawer of the nightstand next to the bed, he finally found ‘something.’

“This is…”

What he found wasn’t Lyla, but a stack of small envelopes. They were neatly tucked away in the drawer as if waiting to be discovered.

Without even making an effort to hide, each envelope had a name written in his wife’s unmistakable handwriting.

One was for Dalton, the butler, and one was for Jenna, her personal maid.

It was partly due to his extraordinary memory, but above all, it was because they were associated with her.

During the three years they lived in this mansion, she never showed any attachment, behaving as if she would leave at any moment. Except for one person, who seemed to have captured her heart.

Knowing that fact, Aslan had always separately called Jenna to take good care of his wife.

Seeing these memorized names in such a place felt surreal.

Why was it Dalton and Jenna, two of the few people whom Lyla seemed to have a fondness for?

As Aslan’s eyes turned to the name written on the last letter, his heart sensed an ominousness and started irregularly pounding.

And the last letter said…

“…”

As Aslan looked at the last envelope, his pupils trembled.

“To Duke Tordell.”

Aslan’s hand trembled as he held the letter. He couldn’t take his eyes off the formal title.

Could his wife really have written this?

He wanted to deny it, but the familiar handwriting was undoubtedly Lyla’s. The round and small, cute handwriting was unmistakably Lyla’s familiar style, which he had seen for years.

Throughout their marriage, his wife would occasionally give him letters. The letters expressed her appreciation for the gifts he had given her, apologies for mistakes she had made the day before, or simply gratitude.

Even after speaking face to face, Lyla would write letters as if summarizing her thoughts and send them.

Aslan would collect the letters she had sent and occasionally read through them when he had time.

Sometimes, he would skim through the names written on the envelopes. Although the contents of the letters varied, the way she addressed him on the envelopes remained the same.

<To my husband, Aslan.>

Lyla always kept a certain distance, but when she sent letters, she would unequivocally treat him as her husband.

However, this letter was different.