Chapter 1: It Seems My Role Is Over

“Hey, Mother. I want to meet my real mother.”

Leon said that from atop the bed.

His soft seven-year-old cheeks.

A mouth where one baby tooth still remained.

This child, whom I had read to every night, combed his hair every morning, and stayed up all night cooling his forehead whenever he had a fever.

“…My real mother.”

When I repeated the words, my own voice sounded flat, like it belonged to someone else.

Leon is not at fault.

This child was simply told that by someone.

I do not need to think about who.

Even without thinking, I already know.

“Leon. Mother has something to take care of. Good night.”

“Okay. Good night, Mother.”

That way of calling me will soon disappear.

(—Ah, so it’s time.)

The moment I closed the bedroom door, I thought tears would fall.

They did not.

It seems I had forgotten how to cry somewhere along the way.

My resolve had already been made long ago.

From the morning I married into this mansion—no, even long before that.

I simply had no reason to let go until now.

Now, tonight, I have that reason.

The study at midnight is cold.

A faint scent of ink lingers in the air.

For seven years, I opened the ledgers here every night.

Even on nights when my husband did not return to the bedroom—though those nights were far more common—I still had this scent.

Relying only on the light of the candlestick, I took the ledgers down from the shelf.

One.

Two.

Three.

In order, from the first year to the seventh.

When I touched the spines, faint magic crests glowed.

The seal of the rune books that responded only to my fingers.

Once that light disappears, no one will be able to open these ledgers anymore.

(You worked well.)

I was not praising myself.

I was praising these ledgers.

Income and expenditures of trade routes.

Contract terms with merchants.

The salary system of the servants.

The budget for gifts in high society.

Everything that kept this mansion running was packed into this shelf.

All of it, I created.

Every time my husband smiled at court and said, “My territory is running smoothly,” it was I who arranged those numbers.

The documents used in trade negotiations with neighboring countries.

The seating charts for banquet guests.

All of it.

He should have known.

He knew, and yet he never once spoke my name.

(Well, it’s fine.)

It truly is.

Now.

The only things I placed into my bag were my rune book management tools, a pen, and the inkstone box passed down from my mother.

I did not take a single ledger.

There was no need to.

I would not request a division of property.

I had no intention of becoming a wife who leaves with severance pay.

I returned the last ledger to the shelf and closed the door.

The magic crest quietly faded away.

The quarterly settlement for this term is next month.

The handover ceremony—since it was not requested, I will not conduct it.

Since it was not requested, it cannot be helped.

The next morning.

My husband’s office was, as always, well-lit.

Dust floated in the sunlight.

Today would be the last day I give instructions for cleaning.

No.

I do not need to give them anymore.

“Serena? What is it, so formal this early in the morning?”

My husband looked up from his documents.

That gentle smile.

The same smile that captivates people in diplomatic settings is now directed at me.

(I once believed in that smile too.

That was a long time ago.)

“Thank you for giving me your time. My husband—no, Lord Alberto.”

I changed how I addressed him.

Just that alone made the air tighten slightly.

“I have something I would like to give you today.”

I took an envelope out of my bag.

And quietly placed it on the desk.

A divorce document.

Lord Alberto’s eyes widened for just a moment.

But he quickly returned to his usual composed expression.

“…What kind of joke is this?”

“It is not a joke.”

“Serena. Why don’t you cool your head a little? I don’t know what you’re dissatisfied with, but as the duchess—”

“I have no dissatisfaction.”

I cut him off.

Politely, yet clearly.

His brows moved slightly.

This man is not used to being interrupted.

There are few in the court who would dare cut off the head of a ducal house mid-sentence.

“I have no dissatisfaction at all. My role has simply ended.”

My role.

For seven years since I married into this mansion, I maintained the ledgers, managed the territory, organized the servants, and continued smiling as the face of high society.

And I raised that child—Leon.

My role as a wife.

My role as a mother.

Both have already ended.

“…If you calm down, you can come back.”

Lord Alberto picked up his pen.

He signed the divorce document with smooth handwriting in the signature field.

Without hesitation.

As if he were signing an invitation to a banquet.

(Ah—this man truly does not understand what it means for me to disappear.)

I received the signed divorce document and carefully folded it.

My fingertips were strangely calm as I returned it to the envelope.

“Just one last thing.”

I turned back and smiled.

I was not crying.

I was not angry.

For seven years, I crossed high society with this face every single day.

At least for the last time, I will do it perfectly.

“Please handle my seven years’ worth of ledgers yourself.”

For just a brief moment, Lord Alberto’s expression froze.

—After seeing that, I left the office.

In the hallway, I passed by a long-serving maid.

She widened her eyes upon seeing me.

It must indeed be unusual for the lady of the house to walk these halls in the morning with travel luggage in hand.

She looked like she wanted to say something.

I only gave a small nod in return.

(I’m sorry.

The meal plan from tomorrow is in the second drawer of the kitchen.)

I did not say it out loud.

The carriage began to move.

Outside the window, the Glanz Ducal residence grew distant.

The well-maintained garden.

A garden for which I planned the budget every year, assigned the gardeners, and chose the seasonal flowers.

I did not look back.

(If I had chosen a different path, by now I would have—)

For just a moment, the marriage proposal I had rejected eight years ago crossed my mind.

A clumsy count from the frontier.

The way his eyes had lit up just a little when he showed me his ledgers—

(No.

Now is not the time to think about that.)

I let my body sway with the carriage.

Inside my bag were only my ledger tools, a pen, and an inkstone box.

That was all.

The seven years’ worth of ledgers were left behind on the study shelf.

If he can read them, then he is free to try.

The spring wind swayed my hair.

It felt light.

My left hand, freed from its ring, felt unbelievably light.

That night.

Duke Alberto Glanz opened the shelf of ledgers managed by his wife—his former wife.

He picked up one of the leather-bound ledgers and opened it.

There were no words.

No numbers.

No tables.

Nothing.

Blank pages spread before him.

No—if one looked closely, it seemed as though faint traces of magic still lingered.

Something was definitely written there.

It should be written there.

And yet, it could not be read.

“…Serena?”

Only that name fell into the empty study.