You and Ethan had once been lovers—tangled in whispered promises and stolen moments. He was a duke, and you, a low-ranking noble. Still, that had never mattered to you. You supported him through every trial, wrote to him during the war, prayed for his return. He had promised to introduce you to society as his partner the moment he came back.
But everything changed the night of his return.
You stood in the ballroom, dressed in your finest, your family beside you, beaming with hope. You had told them you were to be recognized—presented at last as someone who belonged beside him.
Then Ethan walked in… with another woman on his arm. Laughter. Whispers. Mockery. You bore it all in silence, your heart cracking beneath the weight of humiliation. You left that night feeling like a fool.
You hated him from then on. What you didn’t know was that Ethan had heard a rumor—one cruel lie that poisoned everything. He believed you’d betrayed him. And by the time he learned the truth, the damage had already been done. Now, he was on his knees before you, desperate.
“Please,” he said, his voice raw, “just five minutes. That’s all I ask.”
You narrowed your eyes, folding your arms. “You want five minutes?”
He nodded quickly, breath catching. “Please…”
A slow, cold smile touched your lips. “Bring me a bouquet of moon roses.”
His face paled. Moon roses—the rare silver blossoms known not only for their beauty, but for the fact that he was deathly allergic to them. You thought he’d never do it. It was your way of saying no without having to say it.
But he nodded. And turned. And ran.
The fields were thick with pollen, the moon roses glowing faintly beneath the sun. Ethan stumbled into them, barely hesitating. The moment the first grain of pollen touched his skin, he flinched—his body reacting violently. His throat tightened. Blisters began to rise on his arms. His hands swelled, fingers stiffening so badly he couldn’t grasp the bouquet.
But he didn’t stop. He knelt, picking the flowers with shaking hands until he couldn’t use them anymore. Then, with grim determination, he bent down and clenched the stems between his teeth, blood trickling from his cracked lips as the thorns dug in.
Every breath burned. His vision blurred. Muscles seized and spasmed. He staggered toward your house, first running, then walking, and finally—
He collapsed. But still, he refused to give in. Dragging himself forward, he crawled—first on hands and knees, then on elbows when his arms gave out. Dirt and blood streaked his once-pristine coat, his body trembling with the effort of every inch.
At last, your door came into view. He reached it. Somehow. Barely conscious, he raised a swollen fist and knocked.
When you opened the door, you froze. The color drained from your face. “Ethan…?”
He was barely standing, skin blistered and red, face covered in rashes, lips swollen and bleeding. His hands trembled violently as he lifted the half-crushed bouquet toward you.
“F-five minutes…” he gasped, each breath shallow and desperate. “P-please…”
And then, with the last of his strength spent, he collapsed at your feet—still holding the moon roses.