The carriage disappeared beyond the distant gates.
Rosylin remained where she was.
For several moments, she simply watched the empty road, as though some part of her still expected Alan to turn around and wave.
He never did.
Her eyes burned.
She wiped them with the back of her hand, but the tears continued to gather.
She wasn’t crying because Alan was leaving.
She was happy for him.
He deserved the life waiting for him.
He deserved the academy.
He deserved his father’s pride.
He deserved the warmth of being called a son.
What hurt was knowing that she had never received even a fraction of the same tenderness.
Rosylin turned away from the courtyard.
She did not return toward the mansion.
Instead, she walked deeper into the garden.
There was one place where she could breathe without feeling watched.
One place that had belonged to her long before she understood what loneliness meant.
The old tree.
She had discovered it when she was eight years old.
It stood at the far end of the garden, beyond the carefully arranged flower beds and the paths most servants used.
Its branches reached outward like old arms, hiding the trunk beneath a thick canopy of leaves.
No one came there often.
That was why she loved it.
Rosylin climbed onto one of the lower branches with practiced ease.
She had done it countless times.
Once she settled against the trunk, she drew her knees closer.
Her eyes were still sore.
She closed them for a moment.
Then her fingers moved absently over her wrist.
A scar.
She traced it.
Another mark rested near the base of her thumb.
She touched that one too.
Her gaze lowered toward her legs.
There were scars there as well.
Some were old enough to have faded.
Others remained stubborn reminders of things she wished she could forget.
The maids.
Irina.
Yeon.
Hands that had hurt her when no one was watching.
Words that had been spoken because everyone knew she had no one who would defend her.
Rosylin looked at her hands for a long time.
She had grown used to them.
Perhaps that was the saddest part.
She had become so accustomed to pain that sometimes she barely noticed it anymore.
Her head slowly rested against the tree.
The rough bark pressed against her cheek.
She remembered being eight.
She remembered climbing this tree with trembling hands, hiding among the leaves because she didn’t want anyone to find her.
She had cried then too.
She had believed that if she waited long enough, someone would come looking for her.
No one had.
Now she was nineteen.
And she was still here.
Still hiding.
Still waiting for something that had never come.
Rosylin closed her eyes.
A long breath left her.
The garden was quiet.
The sunlight was warm.
The tree was familiar.
For once, she didn’t have the strength to fight the exhaustion pulling at her.
Her breathing slowly became steady.
Her head tilted against the trunk.
And eventually, she fell asleep.
Elsewhere in the mansion, Sylvan Ashford stood alone in the library.
He had been there for nearly an hour.
He had opened books without reading them.
Checked shelves without knowing what he expected to find.
He had even searched the quieter corners of the room.
Nothing.
No clue.
No explanation.
Nothing that could tell him who Rosylin really was.
He closed the book in his hands.
The sound echoed through the silent library.
His expression darkened.
He disliked uncertainty.
Yet this girl had somehow become the one question he couldn’t answer.
He left the library.
The moment he stepped outside, the fresh air touched his face.
He loosened his collar slightly and walked toward the garden.
He needed to clear his mind.
The rose garden appeared ahead.
Rows of roses stretched beneath the afternoon sun.
Red.
White.
Pink.
Sylvan walked between them.
Then he saw a deep red rose.
He stopped.
For some reason, the flower immediately reminded him of her.
Her hair.
Her lips.
Her strange name that he still wasn’t supposed to know.
His expression softened for the briefest moment.
Then he frowned at himself.
“Ridiculous.”
He continued walking.
Another rose caught his attention.
Again, he thought of her.
He exhaled quietly.
It seemed that even the garden had betrayed him.
Every rose reminded him of the girl who had spent years running away from him.
He walked farther.
The noise of the mansion disappeared behind him.
Then he noticed something above the trees.
A piece of fabric.
Sylvan stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
He looked again.
Someone was sleeping among the branches of an old tree.
He approached slowly.
Then he saw the burgundy hair.
His steps stopped.
“Rosylin…”
Her name escaped him quietly.
She didn’t hear him.
For once, she wasn’t running.
She wasn’t arguing.
She wasn’t hiding behind a false answer.
She was simply asleep.
Sylvan stood beneath the tree for several moments.
Then he climbed onto the lower branch and sat opposite her.
His gaze settled on her face.
Without the fear in her eyes, she looked different.
Her long burgundy hair had become tangled during sleep, several strands falling across her cheek.
Her pale face was peaceful.
Her rose-colored lips were slightly parted as she breathed.
There were faint traces of tears near the corners of her eyes.
Sylvan’s expression changed.
She had been crying.
He stared at her longer than he intended.
He had come into the garden wanting to forget her.
Instead, he had found her.
And now he couldn’t look away.
His gaze moved to her hands.
Small.
Delicate.
But covered with faint marks.
His brows drew together.
He looked more carefully.
There were scars along her fingers.
Near her wrist.
Higher along her arm.
Then her shawl shifted slightly.
A scar appeared near her shoulder.
Sylvan’s entire expression changed.
The warmth that had existed in his eyes moments earlier disappeared.
His jaw tightened.
Who had done this?
He looked back at her sleeping face.
Suddenly, the girl who had once seemed like nothing more than an irritating mystery looked very different.
She looked fragile.
Not weak.
There was a difference.
She had survived.
That was what he was beginning to understand.
She had survived something she had never spoken about.
Sylvan’s hand moved before he fully realized it.
A loose strand of burgundy hair had fallen across her face.
He gently moved it aside.
His fingertips stopped near her cheek.
For a moment, he simply looked at her.
The closeness was strangely unsettling.
He had never been a man who lingered near women.
Yet here he was.
Sitting beneath an old tree.
Watching a sleeping girl as though the rest of the world had disappeared.
His gaze drifted toward her lips.
He remembered the way she had spoken to him years ago.
The way she had refused to tell him her name.
The way she had run.
The way she had promised to tell him everything.
And the way she had broken that promise again.
A faint smile almost appeared.
Then he noticed the scars again.
The smile vanished.
His hand lowered.
He would ask her.
He would make her tell him.
Not because he wanted to satisfy his curiosity anymore.
Because something inside him had changed.
He couldn’t look at her pain and simply walk away.
Rosylin shifted in her sleep.
Her eyes suddenly opened.
For a heartbeat, she didn’t understand what she was seeing.
Then her gaze found him.
Her eyes widened.
The peacefulness disappeared from her face instantly.
Sylvan remained perfectly still.
The gentle expression he had worn moments earlier vanished.
His eyes became cold.
Hard.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and deep.
“Don’t even think about running.”
Rosylin froze.
She tried to move backward.
Sylvan caught her wrist.
She looked down at his hand, then back at his face.
His grip was firm but controlled.
“You have run from me enough.”
His gaze dropped to the scars on her wrist.
Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes.
Rosylin instinctively tried to hide her hand.
Sylvan noticed.
His expression became colder.
“Who did this?”
She said nothing.
He waited.
The silence stretched between them.
Rosylin’s heart raced.
Sylvan leaned slightly closer.
His voice became almost frighteningly calm.
“Do not make me ask twice.”
Her lips parted.
Still nothing.
His eyes remained fixed on hers.
Then he spoke in a voice colder than before.
“Who dared to do this to you?”