He turned his head and looked directly at her. His gaze was not cold. It was not cruel. It was simply… clear. It was the gaze of a man who has solved a long, complex, and deeply difficult equation, and has now, finally, arrived at the single, logical, and absolutely inevitable conclusion. “Now that she has recovered,” he stated, his voice a quiet, simple, and utterly devastating instrument of pure, unadulterated logic, “there is no longer a reason for that arrangement to continue. There is no longer a reason for you to be bound to a man you do not want, to a house that is not your own, in a land that will never be your home.” He held her gaze, and in his own dark, intelligent eyes, she saw not a flicker of malice, not a hint of anger. Only the simple, calm, and utterly unforgiving certainty of a problem whose solution had, at long last, and finally, been found. “Therefore, Rosa,” he said, and the use of her name, without its formal, distancing title, was a final, quiet, and exquisitely cruel act of severance. “I believe it is time we discuss the terms of our divorce.” The word, that single, terrible, and utterly final word, hung in the serene, beautiful, and sun-drenched air of the garden like a death sentence. Rosa froze. The world, which had just, for the first time in a decade, begun to feel like a place of warmth, of hope, of a new, and fragile, and beautiful possibility, simply… stopped. The carefully, painstakingly reconstructed composure she had built in the wake of her own emotional cataclysm, the new, fragile sense of self she had begun to explore, shattered into a million, glittering, and razor-sharp pieces. She could only stare at him, her beautiful, profound, and now utterly, completely unguarded eyes wide with a deep, and profoundly unreadable, shock. The man who had faced death for her, the man who had walked through a living hell to give her back her mother, the man who had, with his own impossible, divine power, healed her own broken soul, was now, with the calm, clinical, and utterly dispassionate air of a man settling a business account, dismissing her. He was not just ending their marriage. He was erasing their entire, shared, and world-altering connection as if it were a simple, logistical problem whose final, elegant, and beautifully logical solution had, at long last, and finally, been found. The silence that followed Lloyd’s pronouncement was a physical, crushing weight. The cheerful, ambient sounds of the garden—the gentle splash of the fountains, the buzz of a honeybee, the distant, happy laughter of Yacob playing with his newly awakened mother—all of it faded into a distant, muffled hum, the soundtrack to a world that was no longer her own. Her universe had contracted to this single, terrible, and utterly incomprehensible moment. The word was a foreign, alien thing, a concept from a different, and far more brutal, world. In her circles, in the high, rarefied air of the great houses, such things were not done. Marriages were contracts, alliances, matters of state. They were not things that were simply… ended. Especially not a marriage that had just, in the eyes of the world, become the single, most successful, and most envied alliance in the entire kingdom. Her mind, her magnificent, logical, and now utterly useless fortress, scrambled to process the catastrophic, new variable. It raced through the facts, the data points, trying to find a logical, rational framework for this new, impossible reality. Fact: Her marriage to the Ferrum heir had been a desperate, strategic, and ultimately successful move to gain access to the resources and power necessary to find a cure for her mother. Fact: That objective was now complete. The mission was a success. The unwritten clause of their contract had been fulfilled. Fact: A divorce, therefore, was the logical, the inevitable, the correct conclusion to their arrangement. It was the final, neat, and perfectly rational closing of a very successful, if unconventional, business transaction. The logic was flawless. It was perfect. It was irrefutable. And yet… as she stood there, dissecting the beautiful, cold, and perfect logic of it all, a new, and utterly alien, feeling began to rise from the deepest, most hidden core of her being. A feeling that was not logical. A feeling that was not rational. A feeling that was a profound, a sharp, an aching, and an utterly, completely, and absolutely illogical protest. The truth, the secret, and utterly terrifying truth, was that her plan, the grand, magnificent, and all-consuming strategy that had defined her entire adult life, had never extended beyond this point. Her every thought, her every action, her every sacrifice, had been focused on a single, burning objective: her mother’s recovery. The concept of a future, of a life after that victory, had always been a vague, indistinct, and ultimately irrelevant abstraction. And the concept of a future without him… without the quiet, infuriating, paradoxical, and now undeniably, terrifyingly present fixture that was Lloyd Ferrum… that was a variable she had never, not for a single, solitary moment, considered. She had won. She had won the war she had been fighting her entire life. She had achieved the impossible. And she had just, in the moment of her greatest, most absolute, and most triumphant victory, discovered that the victor’s peace, the future she had fought so long and so hard to secure, was a desolate, empty, and utterly, profoundly lonely landscape. A landscape that she did not, she now realized with a terrifying, soul-crushing certainty, want to inhabit. Alone. She looked at him. He was still sitting there, his expression calm, his gaze direct, waiting for her response, for her logical, rational, and completely expected agreement to his perfectly logical, rational, and utterly, completely, and absolutely soul-destroying proposal. And in his eyes, she saw not a husband, not a partner, not the man who had held her, and healed her, and saved her. She saw a stranger. A kind, respectful, and deeply, profoundly honorable stranger, who was now, with a quiet, gentle, and utterly devastating politeness, showing her the door. Rosa did not remember leaving the garden. She did not remember the walk back to the manor, the polite, concerned greetings of the household staff, the feel of the cool, polished marble beneath her feet. Her body moved on a kind of numb, automated autopilot, a machine performing a series of familiar, pre-programmed functions. But her mind, her soul, was still in the garden, frozen in that single, terrible, and world-shattering moment. The rıghtful source is 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝※𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖※𝕟𝕖𝕥 She found herself in her own room, the familiar, beautiful, and now suffocatingly silent space that had been her sanctuary for a decade. She sat on the edge of her bed, her posture perfect, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a perfect, silver-haired statue of serene, aristocratic composure. But inside, her mind was a maelstrom, a chaotic, raging hurricane of a single, endlessly repeating, and utterly devastating word. The fortress of her logic, her greatest weapon, her most trusted ally, was in a state of civil war. One part of her mind, the cold, pragmatic, and ruthlessly efficient queen, was methodically, relentlessly, and unarguably laying out the facts. The marriage was a tool. A means to an end. The end had been achieved. Therefore, the tool was no longer necessary. To maintain the arrangement now would be… inefficient. Illogical. A sentimental, and strategically foolish, entanglement. A divorce was not a tragedy; it was a neat, clean, and perfectly logical conclusion. It was a victory. It was the final, triumphant closing of the books on a very successful, and very profitable, joint venture. The logic was perfect. It was unassailable. It was a fortress of pure, irrefutable reason. And another part of her, a part she did not recognize, a part that was alien, and treacherous, and terrifyingly, powerfully human, was screaming. It was a silent, desperate, and utterly illogical scream of protest, a raw, primal, and deeply, profoundly felt no. She had spent her entire adult life, a decade of her youth, her heart, her very soul, focused on a single, burning, and all-consuming objective. Saving her mother. It had been her North Star, her reason for being, the single, unshakeable pillar that had supported the entire, vast, and lonely architecture of her existence. And now, he had, with his impossible, beautiful, and utterly infuriating genius, given her that victory. He had taken her life’s work, her impossible quest, and he had completed it. He had handed her the very thing she had sacrificed everything for. And she had just discovered that the thing itself, the victory, the prize, was… empty. The thought was a heresy. A betrayal of her own decade of sacrifice. But it was also a truth. A terrible, beautiful, and undeniable truth. The joy of her mother’s return was real. It was profound. It was a warm, beautiful, and life-giving sun in the cold, winter landscape of her soul. But it was not enough. She had become, in the crucible of their shared, impossible quest, accustomed to something else. A new, and far more complex, and infinitely more dangerous, source of… light.