Chapter 20
Cry, or Better Yet, Beg

“You are truly too kind, madam.”

Mrs. Etman’s eyes shone with genuine admiration as she looked upon the Dowager Duchess.

“To show us such great favor…”

Her face glowed with joy, while her son, Kyle Etman, shifted uncomfortably at her side.

Matthias observed them with quiet amusement. He knew well enough that his grandmother favored their physician, and she was fond of the doctor’s son as well. Dr. Etman was skilled and upright; it was only natural.

His son, likely to follow the same path, would no doubt live a steady, predictable life. His grandmother believed it. Matthias agreed.

And that was the end of his interest.

What caught his attention more was Mrs. Linda Etman herself—the ambitious matron who looked quite unlike her husband and son.

“May we go greet them now?”

Afraid the Dowager might change her mind, Mrs. Etman pressed her request, propriety forgotten.

“My dear…” Dr. Etman tried gently to restrain her, but she was not to be deterred.

Matthias shifted his gaze back to Kyle.

Just moments earlier, his grandmother had proposed introducing the Etmans to Baron Arndt’s family. Everyone understood the meaning: the baron had a daughter of Kyle’s age, just entering the age for marriage.

Though without title, the Etmans were wealthier and more respected than the Arndts. Such a match would benefit the baron more than anyone else.

“Yes, Mrs. Etman. That would be best,” said Katharina von Herhardt with a gracious smile. She summoned a footman, who quickly disappeared into the crowd to fetch the Arndts.

Kyle’s anxious glances toward the terrace betrayed him.

As though he had left something precious behind.

The certainty of it drew a thin smile from Matthias.

A doting mother, a dutiful son, and in between them—Layla Llewellyn. The thought made him chuckle softly.

The Arndts soon appeared, led in by the servant—husband, wife, and daughter.

Kyle understood instantly what this meant. His eyes all but begged to run, but still he stood, playing the polite, well-bred son.

So be it.

Matthias lost interest in the predictable scene. He strolled away, unhurried, across the terrace and down the steps.

The ending was obvious. Kyle’s harmless affection would wither. Layla would be abandoned. And in the end, she would remain here—in his forest.

When that conclusion settled firmly in his mind, Matthias found her. As he had expected, she hadn’t gone far. She was waiting, beneath the rose-covered pergola.

He slowed his pace further, watching. She wasn’t flustered or startled, as he’d half expected. She was asleep.

Moonlight filtered through the rose boughs, falling across her curled form.

Matthias stopped a short distance away and studied her. The neatly set-aside shoes. Her wounded feet. Her slender arms wrapped around her knees. Her face softened in sleep.

Her long hair spilled over her shoulders, glinting faintly in the pale light. He wondered at its texture. On impulse, he bent and picked up one of her shoes.

Layla’s eyes fluttered open.

A dream, she thought vaguely.

Matthias leaned casually against a pergola column, the small shoe dangling from his hand.

But even in dreams, wasn’t this too strange?

The thought banished the haze of sleep.

“…Your Grace?”

She called to him in a whisper, as if testing reality.

Instead of replying, Matthias lit a cigarette. The white smoke curling from his lips proved this was no dream.

Startled, Layla lurched upright—only then realizing the shoe in his hand was her own. She shrank to the edge of the bench, cornered. He watched her like an amused spectator, idly swinging the shoe.

“Shall I return it?”

His voice drifted low through the smoke.

“Yes.”

“Then cry for me, Layla.”

The words came languid, cruel.

Layla sat stunned, hardly able to believe what she had heard. She prayed Kyle would come, but the path behind the pergola was silent.

“He won’t come.”

Matthias’s calm voice cut through her thoughts.

“Kyle Etman.”

Her face twisted. Matthias’s gaze lingered, and he repeated softly:

“The boy you’re waiting for.”

He dropped the cigarette before it burned halfway.

As the smoke thinned and died, Layla lifted her chin in defiance.

“No.”

Determined not to let him see weakness, she rose. Her wounded feet braced firmly against the stone, and she faced him head-on. She was terrified, but she would not be mocked again.

“Kyle keeps his promises.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

She spoke with firm conviction.

“You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I know Kyle better than you ever could, Your Grace.”

Summoning every scrap of courage, Layla spoke clearly, deliberately. Matthias studied her a moment, then his lips curved in a mocking smile.

“Certainty is dangerous, Layla.”

He stepped forward. She flinched but did not retreat.

“I… I just don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

Her voice trembled, but her gaze was steady.

“Because hating you pleases me.”

His answer was calm, almost casual.

“It entertains me when you cry. It delights me when you beg.”

“How can you say such a thing?”

“Layla, I’m only answering your question.”

His expression was unchanging, untroubled.

“You don’t treat anyone else this way. Only me.”

Tears threatened, but she swallowed them back. He nodded, as if conceding her point.

“True.”

“Then why—”

“Because it’s you. Because you’re nothing, Layla.”

His tone was flat, merciless. The words hollowed her out.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

She glared at him, trembling as she fought the tears. For the first time, she almost missed her relatives—the ones who had cast her out again and again. Even her drunken uncle had never been this cruel.

“I’m sorry that a nothing like me dares to stay in your land.”

Her fists clenched, shaking.

“If this is how it was to be, why did you allow me here at all?”

“Layla. Isn’t that a little heartless?”

“You’re already heartless enough.”

Her voice quavered despite her effort to hold steady.

“Are you going to cast me out, then?”

“No.”

His eyes darkened.

“Don’t worry. You’re serving your purpose.”

“You just said I was nothing.”

“That’s your purpose.”

He opened his eyes again, his mocking smile gone, his face calm and cold as stone.

“Enough apologies.”

He straightened, towering over her.

“Your Kyle Etman isn’t coming.”

He gestured toward the empty path, then let his hand brush against her hair. Layla recoiled, but the bench trapped her.

“So cry, Layla.”

His voice was steady, commanding.

“Beg, if you must.”

The suggestion carried the faintest trace of a smile.

Madman.

She had thought it before, but now she was certain. He was utterly mad.

By the time Matthias returned to the mansion, Kyle Etman was still caught at his mother’s side. Baron Arndt and his wife seemed eager for a match; Mrs. Etman’s reaction was no different. Kyle’s stiffness was plain, but his mother cared little for his feelings.

Matthias lost interest in that, too. He slipped back among the familiar faces and resumed his role as Duke of Herhardt.

But Layla had cried.

Remembering it satisfied him. The way her body shook, the tears spilling despite her will. Her reddened eyes only made them shine more brightly, like jewels. Just like the necklace he had given her.

She had cried beautifully, and so he had returned her shoes.

When he left, she was still standing there, weeping. Tears that belonged to him alone. The thought made his steps lighter.

The filth he had felt earlier—watching her smile at Kyle, even as he kissed Claudine—was cleansed.

This night, Layla Llewellyn had been beautiful. And she had wept for him.

A perfect summer night.

But then—unexpectedly—Layla reappeared.

She stood at the edge of the hall’s terrace passage, scanning the crowd.

“Kyle Etman,” Matthias murmured.

At last, she spotted him. But she didn’t approach. She saw the cluster around him, saw the Baron’s daughter, and understood.

She hid behind a column, then slipped over to a passing footman and whispered something. Nodding, the servant turned toward Kyle, who looked frozen with frustration.

Meanwhile, Layla departed quietly.

On impulse, Matthias intercepted the servant.

“Fetch Count Klein.”

The servant blinked, startled. He glanced toward Kyle, hesitated, then nodded.

“Yes, my lord.”

He hurried off.

Matthias stepped onto the terrace, leaning against the very column where Layla had stood. She was already gone, limping barefoot down the garden path, shoes in hand.

He waited. Count Klein would not come; the man had already left early, as usual.

When the servant returned with apologies, Matthias only smiled.

“That’s quite all right. Thank you.”

He turned away, dismissing him.

The servant resumed his task, relaying Layla’s message. Kyle’s face crumpled.

At last, Kyle excused himself and ran for the terrace. But Layla was gone, too far ahead, too fast even on bare feet. He could never catch her.

Matthias accepted a glass of champagne from Riette.

On a beautiful midsummer night, the party was flawless.