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Chapter : 22
A chilly stillness flowed with the cold air.
Peach slowly let go of Freesia’s hand.
“Th-then, I’ll excuse myself now.”
“P-Peach…!”
“See you next time, Your Highness!!”
“Peach!!”
Ignoring Freesia’s outstretched hand, Peach bolted from the mansion in a fluster.
Harts stood unmoving, staring only at Freesia.
“Y-you said you’d come tomorrow, didn’t you?”
“I changed my mind.”
“Well… yes.”
Say something!
But Harts remained silent, his face cold and rigid.
It’s obviously because of my face, right?
“Thanks for the clothes.”
At last, Harts frowned.
“What?”
“What do you mean?”
“Since when did this house have a beehive?”
“……”
His icy gaze was definitely because of Freesia’s face.
“Did you get stung by a bee?”
“…No.”
“Then?”
“……”
Thud, thud. Harts walked closer and closer to Freesia.
Freesia stood frozen, unable to move, and Harts stopped right in front of her face.
“Were you hit?”
His bandaged left hand reached toward Freesia’s cheek.
He hovered just shy of touching her swollen cheek, then slowly lowered his hand.
“Who was it.”
A question tossed out with a sigh.
Freesia didn’t answer.
His words replayed over and over in her mind—Don’t let anyone treat you like you’re nothing.
“Tell me. Who was it?”
“And what if you know?”
“I’ll kill them.”
Harts said it without so much as a twitch of his eyebrow.
Is he joking? Serious?
Seeing Freesia’s startled expression, Harts shook his head like snapping out of it.
“No. Forget I said that.”
His voice, once low and heavy, lightened a little.
“…That woman doesn’t know when to stop. Doing something like this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You think I wouldn’t know you went to see the Empress?”
“Ah…”
He knew.
She thought he might not notice she slipped out using Duke Dell as an excuse.
Harts stared intently at her cheek up close.
Her fair skin was red and swollen—it stung just to look at.
“How badly were you hit?”
“Don’t worry about it. I hit her too.”
“Liar.”
I did though!
Why doesn’t anyone believe me?
Freesia held up her palm.
“I’m serious. I hit her really hard.”
Harts’ gaze fell to her hand.
Small, pale, delicate. Pathetic, really.
Did she even have strength in those fingers?
If he squeezed too hard it looked like her bones would crumble.
A brow tightened on its own.
“I mean it!”
“Even if I believed you did, it doesn’t change the fact that you got hit.”
He said the exact same thing Rondo said.
Except Rondo looked worried—Harts looked ice-cold and terrifying.
“Does it hurt a lot?”
“A little.”
“Ha, unbelievable.”
Harts let out a sigh and bowed his head.
Then he slowly lifted his right hand toward her cheek.
He was about to lightly touch her swollen skin when—
“Kyaaaaa!”
Freesia screamed out of nowhere.
Startled, Harts jerked back a step, hands raised in panic.
“I didn’t touch you yet!”
Freesia burst into laughter at his reaction.
Harts, dumbfounded, stared while she covered her face and giggled.
“Pfft! Got you! I was joking. Just a prank.”
“……”
“You were being so serious…”
Harts glared at her.
So much for lightening the mood.
Freesia stopped laughing at once and straightened up.
Harts took another step toward her.
He hesitated again, hovering as if to touch her cheek, then gave up and gently rested his hand on top of her head instead.
“You smiled, so that’s enough.”
Freesia’s eyes went wide.
Why is he acting like this?
Something about him felt different today.
Harts stroked her hair softly, slowly.
His presence felt warm—sweet enough to make her cheeks burn.
Freesia lifted her head and looked up at him.
Their eyes met, and Harts smiled—softly, warmly.
It wasn’t her imagination.
He was really smiling at her—kindly.
The coldness from earlier was completely gone.
Freesia stared into his gentle eyes for a long time.
If a man like this loved me…
The thought slipped into her mind without warning.
In his eyes, she felt like he would accept anything she did.
She quickly shook the thought away.
No. This man is trying to win.
It’s all an act.
He can’t stand the idea of breaking the engagement because I don’t love him, so he wants me to fall for him.
I can’t let that face fool me.
If I fall for him, I’ll get thrown away—
Penniless, ruined, left on the street.
Freesia took a step back from him.
At that moment, Harts suddenly grabbed her wrist.
“Come with me.”
⋯⋯
Not long after, Freesia found herself in an awkward situation.
“Careful.”
“Yes…”
“No, wait. Softer.”
“S-sir—if I’m any gentler, I won’t be touching her at all…”
Harts had abruptly dragged in a doctor to examine her.
He intimidatingly demanded a medicine that would reduce swelling, and the doctor ground herbs into a cream on the spot.
But every time the maid’s fingertip so much as hovered near Freesia’s cheek, Harts made a scene.
Twenty minutes later, the maid stood frozen red-faced, hands covered in cream, unable to continue.
“Harts, it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt that much.”
“No. It hurts a lot.”
No it doesn’t!
What is wrong with this man?
At this point Freesia wanted to grab the bowl of herbs and smear it on herself.
Harts took the bowl from the maid after a moment of thought.
“Leave us.”
“Y-yes!”
That, at least, was a relief.
The maid scurried out.
Harts dipped his finger in the ointment and approached Freesia.
“I’ll try not to hurt you.”
“You can just put it on normally.”
Swish. His fingertip barely brushed her cheek.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Swish.
A bit more pressure this time—but still featherlight.
“It hurts, right?”
“No.”
Swish.
He grazed her cheek again, staring at her with full worry.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
Seriously, what is he doing?
The bowl is still full!
At this rate, it’ll never get used up.
Freesia grabbed his hand.
“Harts, I’m fine! Stop fussing already.”
Harts stared blankly down at her.
It wasn’t anger—
It was recognition.
Her first time speaking casually to him.
The words tickled something in his memory.
He had heard them before—
From a small girl in pink.
“Harts, it doesn’t hurt at all.”
Damn it.
The memory hit him so hard he shot to his feet and turned away.
His cheeks were flushing.
He didn’t want her to see.
He remembered.
The pink angel.
The childhood Freesia he’d forgotten.
With a sharp slap to his own thigh—as if waking himself—Harts fled the room.
Back in his chamber, he collapsed onto the long couch by the window and shut his eyes.
It was a day he never wanted to remember.
A sunny funeral.
⋯⋯ Flashback ⋯⋯
Duke Dell, newly widowed, was lost in grief.
Yet he was forced to greet the endless stream of guests.
Harts, left with an elderly nanny, drifted through the day, numb and still unable to grasp his mother’s death.
That was when he met Freesia.
In her pink dress with an enormous ribbon on the back, she sat under a tree.
From Harts’ vantage point, the sunlight behind her made her ribbon look like wings.
He thought she was an angel who had come to take him to Mother.
“Can you fly?”
Those were his first words.
Shy Freesia looked at him with a peach-like face and shook her head.
“Why can’t an angel fly?”
She didn’t understand, staying silent, and Harts thought she was a pitiful angel—one who couldn’t fly, or speak.
“I’m Harts Lockin Sweetrad. People call me Young Lord, but you can call me Harts.
Since you can’t talk, call me inside your head.
I’ll allow it ’cause you’re an angel.”
He took Freesia everywhere around the mansion.
Anything to escape the grief.
After making the rounds, out of things to do, Harts climbed a tree and offered his hand.
Freesia tried to follow—and fell.
“Pea—!”
She wasn’t badly hurt, but her knee was scraped and bleeding.
She should’ve been the one crying, yet tears filled Harts’ eyes.
He hadn’t cried when they told him Mother died—he couldn’t.
But once the tears came, they wouldn’t stop.
He threw himself on the grass, wailing, and Freesia gently stroked his head.
“Harts, it doesn’t hurt. So don’t cry.”
“You… you could talk?”
“Mm-hm. Don’t cry.”
“Ha… haha… you could talk. Thank goodness.”
Harts sobbed harder, overwhelmed.
His mother had grown weak when he was four.
No doctor found the cause.
No medicine helped.
One night when a crescent moon shone prettily, Harts opened the window for her.
“Mom, the moon is so pretty.”
“Thank you, Harts.”
He forgot to close it again.
After that, her cough worsened; her condition declined rapidly, and she passed.
It wasn’t his fault.
The night wasn’t cold—just pleasantly cool.
But Harts blamed himself.
“It’s not your fault. Don’t cry.”
Her words saved him.
When the funeral ended, Freesia returned to the palace.
Because she vanished right on schedule, little Harts truly believed the angel had flown back to heaven.
⋯⋯ End Flashback ⋯⋯
To forget the sorrow, he’d erased even her.
Harts opened his eyes and shot upright.
He stared at the right hand that had touched Freesia’s cheek just moments before.
“… It must have hurt.”
He clenched his fist tight.
“Kane!”
He stormed out, voice sharper than usual.
The butler hurried after him toward the study.
“Bring me Count Dude.”
“What is the matter, milord?”
“The wine. We’re cutting off all wine deliveries to the Imperial Palace.”
“…Pardon?”
Harts threw the study door open and glared at the frozen butler.
“The Count. Now.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Among the lands Harts oversaw was Cartibur—an enormous vineyard.
Since returning from study abroad at eighteen, he had managed it personally.
With careful disease control, the harvest became legendary—grapes stretching beyond sight.
Harts built a massive winery there, and the wines produced were the best in the Empire—six times more expensive than most, yet nobles always ordered it for parties.
The Imperial Palace was no exception.
The Sweetrad family supplied exclusive wine to the Emperor—for free.
Not common vintage—special wine made only for the palace.
A nameless wine, produced solely for Imperial use, served at balls and receptions.
Courtiers treasured it as a symbol of privilege.
It was also proof of the Sweetrad family’s close alliance with the throne.
Cutting off that wine would cause a storm.
The Emperor would not let it pass, and Duke Dell would likely erupt as well.
But Harts could not overlook this.
How dare they lay a hand on my fiancée.
My Freesia.
End.
