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Chapter 3
I’m Curious About Your Day
Even after announcing her marriage, nothing changed in Grace’s daily life. When the sun fully set and the mansion grew quiet, Grace picked up a gas lamp and headed to the study.
She loved this time—when her parents, busy with social engagements, were out, and she could have the silence all to herself.
Sitting at her desk, Grace once again stared at a blank sheet of paper, holding her head in frustration. Her job was writing popular romance novels. Writers, by nature, borrowed inspiration from the fairies of the night—so for Grace, the night was busier and more intense than the day.
As she struggled with the blank page, a knock sounded from outside the door.
“Yes, come in.”
The maid, Lisa, entered the study, pushing a trolley. On it were coffee and baked pastries arranged neatly on plates. She quietly set the cup down.
“Thank you. I’ll enjoy it, Lisa.”
After placing everything, Lisa held out a silver tray.
“What’s this?”
“Mr. Filson delivered it earlier.”
On the tray lay a flat letter.
“Have a good evening, miss.”
“Thank you.”
The sealing wax on the letter bore the initial “T.” Turning it over, she saw neat handwriting:
“From Aiden, to Miss Grace Broyton.”
Even at a glance, the penmanship was elegant.
So—she had sent a letter yesterday through Filson, and a reply already arrived today? This fast?
Both doubt and curiosity rose within her. It hadn’t gone through the post office, so speed made sense—but still, this was much faster than she expected.
Grace set down her fountain pen and opened the letter.
She took a sip of coffee and ate a small pastry. The soft butter flavor spread in her mouth.
Inside, the letter was written in the same refined, classical handwriting.
“To Miss Grace Broyton,
Do you feel as though you are standing in the eye of a storm right now? If so, then my concerns were not mistaken. This is my fault—my failure.
I want to tell you this: the wind blowing toward us is not a late-summer typhoon, but a gentle northwesterly breeze of spring. Our voyage toward the future will be like a ship sailing smoothly with a favorable wind.
You asked about my eye and hair color. My eyes are a clear shade of blue, and my hair is brown. My skin is rather fair.
Is there anything else you’re curious about? Anything at all is fine. If you ask, Grace, I am always ready to answer—no matter how trivial it may be.
Grace, I will uphold my trust toward you. As with all marriages, I will keep this promise with all my heart and body. So trust me. You must.
Grace, I would like to ask you something as well. During those busy nighttime hours when everyone else is occupied—what do you do? Daytime is fine too. I’m curious about your day.
With sincerity,
From Aiden.”
After reading it, Grace’s eyes widened.
This was nothing like she expected.
His first letter had been arrogant, and hers had been full of sarcasm and mockery—so she thought his reply would be sharp in return…
Grace pulled out a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer and picked up her pen again. But this time, unlike before, she couldn’t write quickly.
How should she respond to someone asking about her day?
After thinking for a long time, she put the letter back into the drawer. She took another sip of coffee and a bite of pastry, then tried to focus on the blank page again.
No—she had to focus. But her thoughts kept drifting.
Is he curious about me? My day, my thoughts, my world?
Grace shook her head.
This wasn’t the time for such thoughts.
She had to sort out the feelings of her female lead—torn between a vampire and an artificial human—and reveal the secret of her birth. She had to. But the letter she just read kept jumbling her thoughts.
Eventually, Grace tidied the study and walked down the long, dark hallway with her gas lamp. Her silhouette, lit by the single light, stood pale in the darkness.
In her bedroom, she extinguished the lamp and lay down. Even wrapped in warm bedding, sleep wouldn’t come.
Her thoughts kept circling in one direction.
What should she do about this marriage?
Even after a restless night, morning came as it always did.
Grace got dressed and left her room for breakfast, her steps slow with fatigue.
Descending the long staircase, she entered the dining room and saw her mother, Selena Broyton, already seated. Her father had likely not returned from his night out. It wasn’t unusual.
“Good morning, Mother.”
“You’re here. Sit down.”
Grace resembled her mother greatly—her hair color and eye color both came from her.
Bathed in the morning sunlight, her mother looked like a moving Baroque painting, or a finely crafted doll brought to life. Even the way she lifted her spoon to eat oatmeal was elegant.
Grace sat down, spread her napkin, and picked up her spoon. She ate the soft oatmeal, drank some fresh fruit juice, then added an omelet to satisfy her hunger.
There was no conversation—only the quiet sound of utensils.
As Grace took another sip of juice, her mother finished eating and wiped her lips with a napkin. Grace hurriedly spoke.
“Mother, I have something to say.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about my marriage.”
“Ah, yes. Go on.”
Grace took a breath.
“I want to find love.”
She had expected mockery—but the reply was short.
“Then find it.”
“So I want to cancel the marriage—”
“Marriage and love are separate. Do everything you can. Have both marriage and love.”
Grace bit her lip.
Her parents each had lovers, and it was openly known. But Grace didn’t want that kind of relationship.
Seeing her expression harden, a faint smile appeared on her mother’s lips.
“Do you even know how much your father loses gambling, if calculated weekly?”
“What does that have to do with me—”
“Then do you know how much money is involved in your marriage?”
“That can’t be a reason for marriage.”
“No—it is more than enough reason. It’s wealth you could never earn in your lifetime.”
Money. Money.
Grace was sick of it—the contradiction of wanting wealth while despising labor.
As she turned her head away, her mother suddenly grabbed her shoulder with a strong grip.
“I’ve never once stopped your eccentric behavior. You didn’t attend the Warshaw family ball last night, did you? Nor the Campbell family bazaar before that.”
“……”
“Have I ever scolded you? No. I never asked you to play the perfect daughter. But this time, you must do your part for the Broyton family.”
Her mother’s gaze turned sharp.
“Grace, the love you want? You can find it after marriage. I don’t think you’re a lacking daughter. But you need to become a little smarter.”
Her piercing gaze seemed to bore through her.
“This marriage is the greatest fortune of your life. You must hold onto it. There are no other options.”
With that, her mother released her and stood up.
“I trust my daughter will make a wise choice. At the very least, you won’t consider something foolish.”
She left the dining room.
Grace stared at her plate, unable to respond. She drank her juice, trying to quench the dryness in her throat—but the thirst remained.
Grace walked slowly along Wickers Street, her steps heavy.
The green poplar trees looked the same as yesterday, yet somehow the rustling leaves felt bleak.
As usual, she bought a newspaper from a street boy and entered “Echo of Peace.”
The Rons River, flowing across Tern, surged fiercely toward the sea—but Grace’s heart felt heavy.
She ordered coffee and opened the newspaper, but the words wouldn’t register.
Eventually, she folded it and took out paper and her fountain pen.
Maybe writing a letter would ease her mind.
Without thinking, her hand began to move.
“To Mr. Aiden Turner,
Aiden, I did not expect you to reply so quickly. Thank you for understanding my confusion.
I know well what people say about me. A social recluse. A gloomy hermit. The unwanted daughter of the Broyton family. There are countless negative words used to describe me.
I understand that you might think the same.
I do not dislike people. Every morning after breakfast, I walk from the Broyton estate to the café ‘Echo of Peace’ on Wickers Street, observing people. I enjoy capturing moments of real life.
I buy a newspaper from a street boy every day and go to the café. I sit at my favorite terrace seat, drink coffee, and read—either the paper or a book. One of my greatest pleasures is losing myself in thought.
I simply love real, vivid life more than the polished and decorated social world. The same is true at night. I just enjoy time where I can focus on myself.
Does this answer your question?
I am also curious about your day. What do you love most in your day?
With sincerity,
From Grace.”
After writing the letter, Grace felt somewhat relieved. She even found herself looking forward to his reply.
She set down her pen and waited for the ink to dry—
When suddenly, a shadow fell over her face.
She lifted her head.
Bright blue eyes—clear like lapis lazuli—met hers.
“Huh?”
“Hello. There are no seats left—may I join you?”
“Yes, please.”
“Thank you.”
The man sat across from her with an easy smile. His handsome face, confident lips, and large build—barely hidden by his coat—naturally drew attention.
As Grace hurriedly folded the letter and placed it into an envelope, a strange sense of familiarity struck her. She looked at him again.
He met her gaze and smiled.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
