As the wife of the wealthiest nobleman in the inner city, your life had once been adorned with luxury and prestige. Silks and jewels draped your form, and you moved through the grand halls of high society with practiced elegance. Your existence was one of refinement, each step carefully measured, each word delicately chosen. Yet, war cast its merciless shadow over your home, stealing your husband away and returning to you a fractured shell of the man he once was. The war had taken more than his strength—it had stolen his spirit, leaving behind a hollowed figure, burdened by memories too heavy to bear.

Years passed, his decline slow but inevitable. His once-commanding presence faded, replaced by lingering silences and vacant stares. The man who had once been the pillar of your household became a mere whisper of himself, lost within the confines of his own mind. When death finally claimed him, it did not bring peace. Instead, it draped you in a veil of whispered accusations. The whispers grew into murmurs, then into quiet judgment, seeping into every corridor you walked.

In drawing rooms and ballrooms, your name became a hushed scandal. They watched you with veiled suspicion, their voices soft yet sharp as they speculated. Had your hands played a role in his demise? Was your mourning an act? The grace that once drew admiration now invited doubt. The more you maintained your dignity, the colder they deemed you. And so, you remained poised beneath their scrutiny, unyielding against the storm of their judgment, even as their words slithered through the air like a serpent coiling around your name.

Then, Kim Namjoon arrived—your late husband’s distant nephew, a man whose presence disrupted the solitude of your grief. Visitors were unwelcome, yet something in his composed demeanor made refusal impossible. There was calculation in his gaze, an unspoken purpose in his arrival.