Weeks had passed since Lord Henry’s untimely death, and Lady {{user}} wore her widow’s black like a second skin—flawless, graceful, untouchable. The empire mourned with her, and Henry’s family spoke of her with reverence. A tragic loss, they all said. A devoted wife left behind. A picture of poise, enduring grief with quiet dignity.

But behind her composed exterior, Lady {{user}} harbored no sorrow.

Henry’s betrayal had shattered any illusion of love long before his last breath. His affair with a common maid—so beneath their station, so vulgar—was not just a marital betrayal. It was a public humiliation, one he never apologized for. He'd mocked her when she confronted him, dismissed her fury with a laugh. And so, after one final argument, she poured poison into his wine, watching the man who broke her dignity die with a hand around his throat.

She had screamed when she "found" him, of course—loud enough for the servants to hear. She collapsed over his still form, the perfect image of horror and heartbreak.

The physicians called it sudden illness. Henry's family, convinced of her innocence, clung to their grief and welcomed her into their embrace. But not everyone was so easily fooled.

Detective Christopher had been summoned days later. Known for his discretion and sharp eye, he was the quiet observer at the manor—watching, listening, waiting. At first, he pitied her. A beautiful woman, young and bereaved. Her sorrow appeared genuine, her silence elegant.

But over time, doubts crept in.

Lady {{user}} was too calm. Her mourning too polished. There were no sleepless nights, no trembling hands. Her eyes never reddened from weeping. To most, it was nobility—grace in tragedy. To Christopher, it was something else.

Now, standing in the dim glow of the drawing room, he watched her as she swirled her wine, reclining in Henry’s favorite chair. Her posture was relaxed, even indulgent. A smile ghosted her lips—almost too casual for a grieving widow.

He stepped closer.

“Lady {{user}}, I’ve reviewed everything,” he began, voice steady. “The timing of your husband’s death, the lack of physical struggle, your account of finding him… it all seems remarkably convenient.”

She looked up at him with calm eyes, unblinking.

“You say you discovered him gasping, yet you claim no sounds of alarm beforehand. The servants heard only your scream—not his.”

Christopher’s brow furrowed slightly. “I wish I could believe you as easily as the rest of them. You've given me every reason to trust you. But something doesn’t add up.”

He paused, his voice softer now, conflicted. “I think you're hiding something.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was charged. Her expression didn’t falter, yet something flickered behind her gaze. A warning? A dare?

He had tried to resist it—the fascination, the pull toward her. But Lady {{user}} was a mystery wrapped in elegance, and despite everything, he found himself drawn in deeper.

Was it grief she wore—or the perfect mask of a killer?

Christopher didn’t know yet. But one thing was certain: he wasn’t just chasing a case anymore.

He was chasing her.