Chapter 5
The Duke Turned Back

Kyle Etman standing in front of the gates of Gillis Girls’ Academy was as unremarkable as the stone wall and the streetlamp. He’s here again. That was the extent of anyone’s reaction—just a passing glance, nothing more.

Smiling, Kyle scanned beyond the gates. In the distance, a girl was wheeling her bicycle along. He could recognize her from her gait alone—graceful, yet brisk.

Not just her gait.

Her expressive face, her gentle gestures—everything about her was Layla. There was no one else like her. From the day he had first approached that little girl sitting under the willow tree, it had always been that way.

“Layla!”

He called out with vigor. Layla stopped, squinting against the sun, then quickened her steps toward him. Kyle loved that moment most of all—when her pace sped up at the sight of him, when she came light-footed with a small smile.

“Why’d you come here? Wouldn’t it be easier to just wait until I got home?”

“What’s the difference? I was on my way anyway.”

Of course, it was a lie. He had ditched the entire tennis club to walk home with her. But even the wrath of racket-wielding seniors didn’t scare him today.

Tomorrow’s problems belong to tomorrow. Whatever happens, happens.

They walked side by side through the busy streets. They bought ice cream, browsed a bookstore that smelled faintly of dust. Layla laughed often. Aside from Bill, Kyle was probably the only person in the world who knew how much Layla Llewellyn could laugh. And he liked that fact very much.

As they reached the road leading to Arvis, the breeze cooled. Conversation drifted to exams, and Layla’s expression grew serious—despair even touched her eyes when geometry came up. Kyle studied every small change in her face.

Not yet.

The words itching at his throat stayed there. He didn’t want to risk ruining things with a hasty confession. Why bother with being “just lovers,” anyway? They could skip straight to being husband and wife.

Layla Etman. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

“Why are you smiling?”

Layla frowned at him. She had been lamenting her hopeless geometry scores, while Kyle grinned like a fool.

“Uh… well—oh! Did you hear? The Duke of Herhardt is back.”

Kyle abruptly changed the subject.

“It’s been ages. When exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Everyone’s making a fuss about it, but you don’t care at all.”

Layla’s hand tightened on her bicycle handle.

There was no real connection between her and the Duke. They crossed paths sometimes in the forest, or when Claudine summoned her. Even then, Layla tried to avoid him whenever possible, bowing her head deeply if she couldn’t.

She didn’t want to see him.

Ever since that evening years ago, clutching her coin as she ran, only to drop it and watch the Duke stop it under his shoe—she had avoided him.

It had been Claudine who dragged her into that world and tossed her a coin, but it was the Duke who had made her feel utterly small. Perhaps it was because he had been the one to make her realize just how insignificant she was in that glittering, alien world.

That memory had left a wound unlike any other insult or hardship she had endured. She wanted to forget, but seeing the Duke always brought it back. Layla hated him for that—for making her remember.

As she caught her breath, a black automobile passed by. The Dowager would never ride one, so it must have been the young mistress returning from a social gathering.

“With the Duke back, Arvis will be lively for a while.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Layla, maybe I should become an officer too.”

Kyle turned and walked backward, grinning at her.

“Like the Duke. Captain Etman, crack shot, medals gleaming—one bullet, straight through the enemy’s heart.”

He mimed firing a gun, laughing mischievously.

“Please, Mr. Etman. You can’t even kill a chicken.”

Layla snorted. Stung, Kyle couldn’t argue.

It had been about a year ago. Determined to earn his meals at Bill’s cabin, he had boasted he could do any task. Bill told him to slaughter a chicken for dinner. Boldly, Kyle had tried—but failed to pluck even a feather. That was the day he earned the humiliating nickname “Etman the Freeloader.”

“My good friend Kyle Etman. That’s why I like you.”

Layla laughed, watching his scowl.

“I hope your hands save people, not pull triggers.”

“Of… of course. I’m going to be a doctor.”

Embarrassed, Kyle rubbed his cheek.

“Maybe an army doctor. Do they give medals to them too?”

“If you save enough lives, they should. It’s a far greater deed than killing.”

“Maybe…”

They bantered lightly until they reached the crossroads. The Etman house lay down the left-hand path.

“Ah! I left that geometry notebook I meant to lend you.”

Kyle grimaced.

“Then come by this evening. Bring it with you.”

“Hey. Are you waiting for me, or for the notebook?”

“The notebook.”

Layla’s shameless answer made her break into laughter. Kyle laughed too, then took off running toward home.

“Take your time! Dinner will take a while anyway!”

Layla shouted after him.

“Mind your own business! I’ll do what I want!”

His reply came back even louder.

Shaking her head with a smile, Layla mounted her bicycle and headed down the plane tree-lined road toward the mansion.

Matthias stopped the car at the estate’s entrance. The driver and butler exchanged nervous looks.

The Duke’s return had come early, a full week before expected. Arvis’s staff had scrambled all day to prepare, and only a small group had been sent to greet him. But now this—another surprise. Hessen swallowed hard.

“Your Grace, we haven’t yet arriv—”

“I’ll walk.”

Matthias cut him off calmly. The driver hurried to open the door.

“No.”

Matthias shook his head at Hessen, who had moved to follow.

“I’ll see you at the house.”

He smiled briefly and turned away. Hessen, flustered, obeyed. The car drove off, leaving the road quiet once more.

Holding his officer’s cap loosely in one hand, Matthias strolled beneath the trees as though on a leisurely walk. His boots rang in rhythm with the rustling leaves.

Matthias von Herhardt had been the perfect child, the perfect student, and now the perfect officer. Soon he would marry the perfect woman, become the perfect Duke, the perfect father. It was all so inevitable it felt almost dull.

His pace slowed. Shafts of light fell through the branches, sharpening the red hue of his eyes. Sunlight glinted on the medals and buckles of his blue-gray uniform.

This summer, it’s time for an engagement.

His mother’s words—he had readily agreed. Marriage at the right age, producing an heir—an obvious duty.

I believe Claudine is best suited to be the next Duchess.

His grandmother’s decree—he had accepted without protest. Claudine von Brandt had the pedigree and qualities of an ideal bride.

He had never needed to want.

Before he could, everything was already provided. With nothing lacking, desire was irrelevant. Marriage was the same.

Matthias wanted a perfect marriage.

Not one tangled with emotion, but one that would strengthen the foundation of his world. Claudine von Brandt was the most fitting partner, and that was enough.

He stopped in the middle of the road. Sunlight stabbed at his eyes. And then—he felt a presence.

A girl on a bicycle appeared. As he clasped his hands behind his back, she passed on his left, golden hair rippling like waves.

Layla Llewellyn?

As the name crossed his mind, she turned her head. Her green eyes widened at the sight of him.

In that instant, the bicycle wobbled and toppled. Layla fell with a scream, her bike clattering beside her. The wheel spun furiously.

Matthias walked toward her. From beneath his shadow, the girl lifted her face. It was indeed Layla Llewellyn.

The bird-crazed little brat.

“…Forgive me, Your Grace.”

She bowed deeply, waiting for him to pass.

Instead, Matthias lingered. Her uniform was caked with dust, stockings torn, knee bleeding.

As the wheel’s spinning slowed to a stop, silence returned.

Layla looked up again. Her bold, defiant gaze was still there—but softer now, somehow.

She’s growing up.

It was a simple truth, yet it unsettled him.

To Matthias, Layla Llewellyn had always been a child. A bothersome girl who darted away from him like prey. Nothing more. But the young woman before him didn’t match those memories.

The lines of her body beneath the thin summer uniform were no longer those of a scrawny child. Her flushed cheeks, her lips, even the faint fragrance of her—everything was different.

As he dwelled on that strange discomfort, Layla staggered to her feet, dusting her skirt, fixing her shoe. Still, she barely reached his chest.

“Layla Llewellyn.”

Her shoulders jerked at the sound of her name. She bowed deeper.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.”

Repeating the words, she crouched to gather her scattered belongings—her bag, her books, her notebooks.

Matthias’s eyes followed her hand as it reached for a pen.

He stepped forward and pressed it under his boot. Layla froze, then lifted her gaze in shock.

“Layla Llewellyn.”

He spoke her name again.

“I’m calling you.”

His words were slow, deliberate, like the grinding of his heel.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to answer. She tried to tug the pen free, but his boot held firm.

“Please, speak. I’m listening.”

Her voice trembled, but her eyes burned, green as the summer woods, a mix of outrage and shame. She remembered that same look on his face the night he pinned down her coin with his shoe.

Matthias let out a soundless laugh and walked on, slipping his cap back onto his head.

Layla stared after him, stunned.

If he wasn’t going to say anything, why do this at all?

Her hand tightened around the rescued pen.

Would anyone in Arvis believe the perfect Duke capable of this?

She almost thought she could wager every coin she’d saved for her glasses on the answer—no. They would think her strange.

Pressing her lips together, Layla set her bike upright, wiped her pen clean, and tucked it into her bag.

She followed behind him, wheeling her bicycle, back straight despite the sting of her wounds.

If only he’d use those long legs to walk faster…

She almost sighed in frustration—when suddenly, the Duke slowed and turned back.

Leaves fluttered in the wind, sunlight patterns shifting across the road.

Layla froze, forgetting to avert her gaze. Matthias’s eyes traveled slowly down her figure—over her hair, her heaving chest, her hands gripping the handlebars, her slender ankles, her small feet.

And finally, her eyes.

He studied those clear green eyes in silence.

Layla Llewellyn was still just an orphan living in his domain. But one thing had undeniably changed.

Time had passed. The child had grown.

And once he accepted that fact—he finally saw her.

No longer a little girl, but the woman, Layla Llewellyn.