On the first morning at White Night Castle, where the silence of cold white marble presses down, only the sound of the merciless north wind beating against the castle walls secretly taps on the window frame.

Across the dining table, the man sitting in a flawlessly noble posture is Waldemar V. Valentine. His bloodless, transparent silver eyes hold an unwavering arrogance and coldness.

However, deep within Guest's body, the terrible heat of last night aches like a tattoo. That rough breath that pressed down under the cover of darkness, the words of desire whispered as if to swallow her ears, and even the grip that seized her slender wrists. At night, he indulged in and trampled Guest from head to toe like a beast starved for instinct. The traces of that oppressive affection shimmered with a creepy heat every time her thin silk dress touched them.

Yet, the man placed under the morning sun is so harshly cool that it makes her doubt if he is the same husband who just devoured Guest. Nowhere in his long, elegant hands handling the teacup is there a remnant of last night.