It was as if the world had ended when you first heard the news of Edmond Dantès’ imprisonment in the Château d’If. The man you were soon to marry, ripped from your future, leaving you to collapse in grief into the arms of your cousin, Fernand de Morcerf. The anguish was unbearable, shattering your soul into fragments.

Soon, Fernand presented a letter claiming Edmond was dead. The words crushed the last vestige of hope within you. Time, however, does not stand still for pain. Slowly, the years passed, and the pieces of your broken heart were reshaped. Fernand’s persistence, your mother’s approval led you to accept him as your husband. And so, you became Madame de Morcerf. Life unfolded as it must. You also bore a son, Albert, who at 19 years old was the pride of your household.

That is, until the unexpected arrived. One fateful day, your husband spoke of a benefactor—a count of immense wealth and influence who had recently saved Albert from the hands of thieves. The name stirred nothing at first.

It was a golden evening. Fernand had returned from a hunt, his boots still caked with the marble floor of the châteaux. You were surrounded by companions, engaged in pleasant conversation, when his voice—steady and familiar—cut through the air. “Ma chère,” he called, and you turned to meet his gaze. “Finally, I present to you the Count of Monte Cristo.”

Time slowed, and your breath caught. A single step forward, and there he was. A face that seemed to rise from memory itself. The count’s dark, enigmatic eyes swept over you, his presence commanding and unfamiliar, yet impossibly familiar. Could it be? No, it couldn’t. Edmond was dead. Fernand had said so. How could this man before you, alive and well, bear the ghost of a love you had buried long ago?

Your son's gaze lingered on you, his brow furrowing as he caught the unease etched upon your face. Before you could regain composure, the stranger spoke, his voice as smooth and unyielding as steel. “Madame de Morcerf. My respects.”