The air was crisp with the fading warmth of the sun, the golden hues of the sunset spilling over the land like liquid fire. Standing atop the hill, Albert Reo let his gaze drift over the small lake below, its surface shimmering with the last light of the day. A peaceful moment. A stolen breath away from duty.

  “My lord,” came a voice from behind him, measured and respectful. “Your father requests your presence. I believe it is time we take our leave.”

  Albert sighed, the weight of responsibility settling back onto his shoulders like an old cloak. “Yes,” he murmured, drawing in a slow breath as if bidding farewell to the quiet. “Perhaps we should.”

  He turned, prepared to walk the path back to his carriage, when his eyes caught sight of her.

  A woman in black stood just ahead, the fine lace of her hat casting delicate shadows over her face. She was merely another passerby, a figure moving through the evening’s hush. He should not have noticed her. He should have simply continued walking.

  But he glanced at her.

  It was only a second. A fleeting moment.

  But it was enough.

  Something deep within him stirred, as though a string had been plucked in the very core of his being, sending a shiver through his soul. He had never seen her before, and yet—it felt as if some forgotten part of him had been waiting for this very instant.

  Her hair, dark as midnight, curled softly beneath her hat, brushing against the fine fabric of her attire. And her eyes—grey, deep, filled with something distant yet unknowingly captivating—reflected the last embers of sunlight like polished silver. They did not meet his directly, and yet, that single glimpse was enough to steal the air from his lungs.

  A strange heat rose to his face. Without thought, without hesitation, he turned away—too swiftly, almost abruptly—as if caught in something forbidden. His heart faltered, stumbling over the foreign sensation that gripped him. But he did not stop. He did not allow himself to.

  He stepped into his carriage, settling into the familiar space, but the moment the door closed, the breath he released was unsteady, unfulfilled. The wheels creaked, ready to move, but—

  He could not leave.

  Not yet.

  “Halt the carriage.” His voice was sharp, sudden. Even he was surprised by the urgency in it.

  The driver pulled the reins immediately, confusion flickering across his features. “My lord?”

  Albert said nothing. He barely noticed the bewildered glances of his attendants as he turned toward the window, as if something stronger than his own will had taken hold of him.

  And there she was.

  She stood among a gathering of ladies, her posture poised yet at ease. And then she smiled.

  Not for him.

  For them. For the women who had come to her, perhaps friends or acquaintances, greeting them with a warmth so gentle it softened the air around her. It was effortless, radiant. A smile that held no grand intention, no awareness of its effect. And yet, it unraveled him completely.

  Something nameless and unbidden settled deep in his chest, something he had no right to feel.

  For the first time in his life, Albert Reo understood what it was to long for something untouchable.

  A quiet joy—dangerous in its depth—bloomed within him, filling the space where logic and duty should have been. He did not know her name. He did not know if fate would allow him another glimpse of her. And yet, she had already taken root in his thoughts, her presence lingering like the last breath of twilight.

  A voice called his name.

  Albert blinked, as if waking from some dream spun in the dying light. He turned away from the window, his expression unreadable.

  “My lord?” His butler’s voice was careful. Hesitant.

  Albert straightened, the moment slipping through his fingers like sand. “It is nothing,” he said smoothly. “Let us proceed.”

  The carriage lurched forward, carrying him away. But his heart remained behind, left in the wake of a glance too brief and a feeling too perilous to name.

  The carriage ride passed in a blur, though Albert scarcely noticed. His body swayed with the gentle rhythm of the wheels upon the road, but his mind… his mind was elsewhere.

  In his thoughts, he was not seated in the carriage, but atop that hill once more, the sky painted in golden hues, the lake below shimmering in the fading light. And beside him—she sat.

  The black maiden.

  She was turned slightly, gazing at him rather than the view, her silver-grey eyes glistening with something unspoken. And then, that smile—the very one that had stolen his breath, the one that had unraveled him—graced her lips.

  It was soft. Innocent. Breathtaking.

  Albert felt warmth bloom within him, a strange sensation, light and yet impossibly deep. He had never even heard her voice, yet in his mind, he imagined it—a voice both sweet and strong, one that would carry through the wind like a melody untouched by the world’s cruelty.

  How foolish… and yet, how utterly intoxicating.

  A slow smile curved upon his own lips, his eyes closing as he savored the image. It felt almost as though he were truly there, as if time had bent to grant him this fleeting dream.

  The lone attendant seated across from him shifted uncomfortably, stealing cautious glances at his lord. Never before had he seen Albert Reo, heir to one of the most prestigious noble houses, sit in silence, smiling to himself as if lost in a dream. It was… unsettling, to say the least.

  And then, far too soon, the carriage slowed.

  Albert blinked, the vision of her vanishing like mist in the morning sun. He frowned slightly.

  Already?

  Had they taken some shortcut? Had the driver sped the horses? It felt as if mere minutes had passed.

  But no—it had been well over half an hour.

  He hummed softly to himself, amused by the illusion of time, then stepped out of the carriage with effortless grace. The air of the estate greeted him, familiar and grand, but his heart still wandered elsewhere.

  Then—laughter.

  Soft, feminine laughter carried through the evening air.

  Albert turned immediately, as if instinct itself had seized him. His eyes scanned the courtyard, swift and searching. The guards stationed at the gates exchanged confused glances at his behavior, but Albert paid them no mind.

  His gaze swept over the gathering of women in the distance, their dresses elegant, their voices light with mirth. Yet, no matter how closely he looked… she was not among them.

  His chest tightened, a flicker of something strange settling within him. Disappointment? But how could that be? Of course, she would not be here. He had only just seen her, a passing figure in the dusk.

  Still…

  His fingers twitched at his side before he exhaled quietly, lips curving into the faintest hint of a self-deprecating smile.

  How absurd of him.

  With a final glance at the courtyard, he turned toward the estate doors. He had a father to see.

  Yet even as he walked inside, his heart remained lost somewhere between the setting sun and the silver gaze of a woman whose name he did not yet know.

  Albert walked through the grand halls of the Reo estate, his polished boots clicking softly against the marble floors. The chandeliers above cast a warm glow, gilding the corridors in golden light as evening settled in.

  The manor was alive with its usual hum of activity—maids carrying trays, butlers attending to their duties, footmen stepping aside with perfect etiquette as their young lord passed.

  Yet, unlike most noble heirs who strode past their servants without a second glance, Albert was not one to remain coldly detached.

  "Good evening, Lord Reo!" A maid, arms full with fresh linens, curtsied as he passed.

  Albert, ever the gentleman, offered a small nod. "Good evening, Elise. You look quite burdened—has the entire estate decided to change their sheets tonight?"

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The young woman giggled, adjusting the stack in her hands. "It certainly feels that way, my lord."

  "A tragic fate," Albert said in mock sympathy. "Stay strong, brave soldier."

  She laughed at that, shaking her head as he walked on.

  Further down the corridor, a footman, Theodore, bowed respectfully. “My lord, welcome home.”

  "Ah, Theodore. You look quite sharp today—new uniform?"

  The man blinked in surprise before chuckling, tugging at his cuffs. “It is indeed, my lord. I did not think you would notice.”

  "And yet, here I am, ever the keen observer." Albert smirked slightly. "Do be careful, though. With such fine attire, you may steal the attention of the ladies, and I cannot have competition under my own roof."

  Theodore let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. “I assure you, my lord, no one could rival you in that regard.”

  Albert merely hummed in amusement, continuing on his way.

  At the end of the hall, a trio of maids had gathered near a table, polishing a collection of silverware. As soon as they caught sight of him, they curtsied in unison. “Welcome home, Lord Reo.”

  "Ladies," he greeted smoothly, pausing for a moment. "Such dedication—do these spoons require such devotion, or have you sworn an oath to outshine the very stars?"

  One of the maids, Margaret, playfully huffed. “It is only natural, my lord. If we do not polish them properly, you might see your reflection and be too dazzled by your own beauty to eat.”

  A sharp laugh escaped another maid, while Albert, taken aback, chuckled deeply. "Margaret, remind me to have you write poetry in my name one day."

  Another voice chimed in. “A poem for a noble lord and his undying love for his cutlery!”

  The group laughed, the sound echoing softly in the vast hall.

  Albert shook his head with a smile, moving on. "You jest, but I shall have my revenge when I find tarnished silver in my dining hall."

  As he continued toward his father’s study, he was met with warm smiles, amused glances, and the lighthearted laughter of those who served the Reo estate. It was an unspoken truth that, despite his noble status, Albert was not the kind of man who ruled with an iron hand. He had grown in the company of these people, and while formality remained, there was an ease, a familiarity that softened the rigid boundaries between master and servant.

  But beneath all the pleasantries and easy banter, his heart still carried the weight of a fleeting moment. A glance, a smile, a woman in black whose name he did not know.

  And though he carried himself as he always did, though his lips curved in amusement and his voice remained steady, his thoughts—his thoughts were elsewhere.

  By the time he reached the heavy doors of his father’s study, he exhaled softly, composing himself once more.

  He lifted his hand and knocked.

  “Come in,” came the familiar voice, followed by a muffled cough.

  His father was ill, yes, but it was nothing more than a common cold. Still, hearing it unsettled him. He pushed the door open, stepping inside the well-furnished study where warm candlelight flickered against the shelves of books and maps lining the walls.

  Seated across from their father were his older sister, Genevieve, and his younger brother, Philip. They had arrived before him, both turning their heads as he entered.

  His father, Lord Everett Reo, gave a nod of approval as he took in Albert’s appearance. “Ah, there you are. You carry yourself well, my son—every bit the noble heir. It pleases me to see you always so well-kept.”

  Before Albert could even respond, Genevieve scoffed, reclining in her chair with a smirk. “Well-kept, indeed. Are we speaking of the same boy who used to fling himself into the mud, declaring himself a knight of the realm?”

  Philip, who had been silent thus far, pressed his lips together, failing—miserably—to suppress a small, amused noise.

  Albert, despite himself, rolled his eyes. “I was six.”

  His sister waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I remember it well. You would stand atop that poor, broken wooden crate, sword in hand, claiming victory over your imaginary foes, all while covered head to toe in dirt.”

  Philip snickered again, and Albert exhaled sharply. “I do believe our father called me here for something of importance, not for a recollection of my childhood escapades.”

  Their father cleared his throat—not entirely from amusement, but to refocus the conversation. “Yes, indeed,” he said, his voice taking on a weightier tone. “I have received an offer.”

  Albert straightened slightly, listening.

  Lord Everett folded his hands before him, his sharp gaze settling on his son. “It is a proposal.”

  A pause.

  “A marriage proposal.”

  Albert’s breath caught.

  “It is from a noble house, one of higher standing than ours,” his father continued. “The alliance would be most beneficial. Their wealth far exceeds ours, and through this union, our businesses could intertwine. The expansion of our trade would grant us influence beyond our current means.”

  Albert said nothing.

  The air in the room changed—Genevieve leaned forward slightly, watching him with interest, while Philip let out a quiet groan, dragging his hands through his hair as if he had already foreseen the coming storm.

  His father kept speaking, between the occasional cough, listing benefit after benefit—the political advantages, the financial security, the rise in status. It was all so logical, so carefully planned, as though Albert’s life were but another calculated move on a chessboard.

  But the words blurred together.

  The warmth he had carried from his earlier dreamlike state, from the memory of her, faded.

  The black maiden.

  The grey eyes that had stolen his breath. The smile that had left him weightless.

  And now, he was to marry a woman he had never met, a woman chosen for strategy rather than for love.

  His heart sank.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, Albert spoke. His voice was quiet, yet firm.

  “…I am sorry, Father, but I cannot accept this.”

  For a moment, there was nothing but the crackling of the fireplace.

  His father let out a small chuckle, almost as if he had misheard. “Fantastic.”

  Then, his expression shifted. “What?”

  The room froze.

  Genevieve’s lips twitched in intrigue as she turned her full attention toward him. Philip sighed heavily, rubbing his temples as though this were all too predictable.

  Lord Everett’s eyes narrowed slightly. He straightened in his chair, his commanding presence filling the room once more. “Albert,” he said, voice measured, “you will explain yourself.”

  Albert swallowed, steadying himself. His thoughts swirled, but one thing remained certain.

  He could not marry someone else.

  Not when his heart had already begun to stray toward the unknown woman in black.

  Not when, for the first time in his life, he felt something beyond duty.

  Not when, even now, her image refused to leave his mind.

  He lifted his gaze, meeting his father’s expectant stare.

  And with quiet resolve, he answered.

  Father,” he began, his tone measured yet earnest. “I hold nothing but the highest respect for you. For years, I have watched and learned under your guidance, understanding the weight of our name, our responsibilities. I know the decisions you make are always for the prosperity of our house.”

  Lord Everett merely watched him, his expression unreadable.

  Albert inhaled, then continued.

  “But… I have also watched how marriages in noble houses unfold.” His gaze flickered toward Genevieve for the briefest of moments before returning to his father. “I watched how my sister’s union was arranged—a political binding, carefully calculated to secure power. I watched how the name of love was never spoken in those halls, how she was sent away to a house not of her choosing. And I watched how that was considered normal.”

  A heavy silence followed.

  Genevieve’s head lowered slightly, fingers tightening against the fabric of her gown.

  Albert pressed forward.

  “I do not wish for the same fate,” he said, voice stronger now. “I do not wish to stand beside a stranger, bound by duty alone. I want to marry for love, to choose someone with whom I share my soul, not just a title. I want to feel—to know the kind of love I see in the streets, the kind that is not dictated by contracts and agreements.”

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then, Philip scoffed.

  “What do you mean?” His younger brother stepped forward slightly, brows furrowed in clear frustration. “This is the life we were born into. You can have the wife chosen for you and keep anyone else you desire by your side. This is how it has always been done. How much more freedom do you want, Brother?”

  Albert turned toward him, lips parting to respond—

  “Silence!”

  Their father’s voice rang through the chamber, sharp and commanding.

  Philip bit his tongue, shoulders stiffening in annoyance, before stepping back toward the nearest chair and sitting down with an impatient sigh.

  Lord Everett turned his gaze back to Albert, his eyes now carrying the weight of decades of hardened experience. “You speak of love as if it is a thing that lasts. A thing of permanence.” He took a slow breath before continuing, “Love is an illusion, Albert. A momentary indulgence. What remains—what truly holds power—is status, influence, and wealth. That is what you should be thinking of.”

  Albert clenched his fists at his sides but said nothing.

  His father exhaled through his nose. “You will return to me when you have changed your mind,” he said with finality. “I will give you six weeks.”

  Albert felt his stomach sink.

  “Now,” Lord Everett continued, clearing his throat, “you are all dismissed.”

  A harsh cough followed, breaking the tense silence.

  Genevieve, for all her sharpness, reached for the glass of water sitting near the edge of the desk and extended it toward their father. “Here, drink something.”

  But Lord Everett shook his head. “Go,” he said simply, waving her off with a dismissive hand. “I do not need it.”

  Albert watched as his sister hesitated for only a moment before nodding and placing the glass down. She turned, her expression unreadable, and walked toward the door.

  Philip stood with a dramatic sigh, rubbing the back of his head before following her out.

  Albert lingered for just a moment longer, standing in the heavy silence of the room, before finally turning on his heel and stepping out into the dimly lit corridor.

  The door shut behind them with a quiet click.

  As the three siblings stepped out of their father’s study, the heavy door closing behind them, the tension did not fade. The dimly lit corridor felt quieter than before, save for the soft echo of their footsteps against the polished marble floor.

  Philip was the first to break the silence.

  "If I were in your place, I would have never declined." He let out a short, amused breath, shaking his head. “A noblewoman of higher standing, wealth beyond our own, and a chance to expand our name—you turned all that down? Truly, brother, you are beyond my understanding.”

  Albert merely exhaled, not sparing him a glance.

  Genevieve, walking just a step ahead, sighed. “Enough, Philip,” she murmured, rubbing her temple as though this conversation exhausted her already. She turned toward them, eyes shadowed in the dim candlelight. “I am retiring to my quarters. Rest well, brothers.”

  Albert watched her closely as she spoke, his sharp gaze catching something—just for a moment—a flicker of sadness in her eyes. A silent pain, one she did not voice.

  She turned and walked away before he could say anything.

  Philip, undeterred, scoffed. “You will never understand, Albert. Love—true love—is nothing more than a pretty dream. A luxury few can afford. The world does not work on emotions.”

  Albert smiled to himself, shaking his head. “And you, little brother,” he said smoothly, “will never understand the joys of love—the warmth of the heart when it is set aflame.”

  Philip pulled a face of pure disgust. “Oh, do not tell me you are in love,” he said, voice dripping with exasperation.

  Albert merely turned his back to him, walking down the corridor with a graceful ease. “Perhaps,” he mused, waving a lazy hand in farewell. “Good night, Philip.”

  Philip muttered something under his breath, but Albert paid him no mind.

  His thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.

  He made his way to his chambers, his mind filled with the image of the black-clad maiden. The way her presence had seized his breath, the way a single glance had unraveled something deep within him.

  Upon reaching his room, he poured himself a glass of fine liquor, the amber liquid catching the flickering candlelight. With slow, deliberate steps, he moved toward his balcony, resting his back against the cool stone wall.

  Above him, the moon shone in full brilliance, silver light spilling across the vast estate grounds.

  Albert smiled, lifting his glass toward the sky, watching how the moonlight shimmered within it—beautiful, ethereal, almost enchanting.

  In a voice barely above a whisper, carried away by the night breeze, he murmured,

  “To you.”

  And with that, he drank, savoring the burn of the liquor as it slipped past his lips, warmth spreading through him.

  Dreamily, eyes heavy with the weight of longing, he retreated to his bed, hoping—no, praying—that he would see her again in his dreams.