Silence settled between Noctis and Clarisse after she finished recounting the story.
Clarisse’s gaze remained fixed on the ground, as if replaying every word she had just spoken.
Noctis rubbed his forehead before finally breaking the silence.
“How did he find out?”
“He came to my hospital room after my treatment was done,” Clarisse replied quietly. “And I thought it was only right to tell him the full truth… I… didn’t know it would turn out like this…”
There was guilt in her voice. Her eyes never left the floor.
“No,” Noctis said firmly. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Clarisse inhaled slowly before looking at him.
“Then… are you ready to resolve the issue between Miss Ilya and Sir Ian?”
Noctis glanced at her.
Then he took a deep breath.
“No. I refuse.”
Clarisse’s head snapped up.
“Huh? What do you mean? I already told you every—”
Pain struck his head again.
This time, he was prepared for it.
But preparation did not make it hurt any less.
He clenched his teeth as the familiar darkness swallowed him.
“This one…” he muttered weakly, “…will be the last.”
—
Time: 6:00 AM
Noctis woke up.
Again.
But this time—
He had no intention of failing.
Today would be his last day in this mansion.
The same sequence of events unfolded.
The same conversations.
The same resistance from the head chef.
The same negotiations.
Until finally—
The head chef agreed.
“Let’s tell this news to Miss Ilya right away,” Clarisse said with renewed excitement.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“No. I’ll tell her myself,” Noctis replied, calmly dismissing her enthusiasm.
“But—”
“I know a way to convince Miss Ilya. Please trust me. Just this once.”
Clarisse studied him carefully, trying to gauge his seriousness.
“You’re sure? Young Miss doesn’t even know you that well,” she said, raising a brow.
“Yes,” Noctis answered steadily. “Please. Give me one chance.”
Clarisse held his gaze for a moment longer before exhaling.
“…I understand. Just don’t mess this up.”
“You don’t need to worry,” Noctis said, confidence steady in his expression.
Noctis made his way toward Ilya’s room.
This time, his steps carried no hesitation.
Standing before her door, he paused only briefly before knocking three times.
Silence.
Longer than expected.
‘Is she not going to open the door because it’s me?’ he wondered, doubt beginning to creep in.
Then—
Click.
The door opened.
Ilya stepped out, wearing the same distant, uninterested expression.
“What brings you here?” she asked bluntly.
Noctis remained calm.
“I’ve come with good news.”
“Good news?” Ilya frowned.
“Yes. We’ve finally arranged a birthday party for you.”
“What? Really— wait. Did you get permission for it?” she demanded, glaring at him.
Noctis hesitated.
Only for a moment.
“Yes,” he said. “The lord has given permission.”
It was a lie.
But it was the only path forward.
“What!? Are you seri—”
“But there’s a problem,” Noctis interrupted.
Her excitement flickered but did not disappear completely.
“A problem? What kind of problem?”
“Sir Ian… won’t be attending.”
The light in her eyes dimmed instantly.
“Oh. I—I…”
Her head lowered.
Noctis watched her silently.
Something about this scene felt familiar.
‘Maybe it’s the flowers,’ he thought.
The flowers that bloomed only after loss.
After both of them had buried something they could never retrieve.
He exhaled slowly.
“But I think I know a way to call him.”
Ilya’s head snapped up.
“How?” Hope returned—fragile but visible.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
The hope shattered just as quickly.
“He won’t,” she said flatly. “He will never come. Even if I beg him.”
“You’ll never know until you try—”
“HE WON’T!” she shouted, tears forming in her eyes. “You think I haven’t tried? I’ve tried more than enough!”
“Miss,” Noctis said calmly, never raising his voice, “this isn’t about whether he comes to the party. It’s about your resolve to make up with him.”
“And what would you know about any of this?” she shot back.
“I know, Miss Ilya,” he answered steadily. “I know more than enough to say this.”
She searched his eyes.
For deception.
For hesitation.
There was none.
Slowly, she calmed.
“Then… what am I supposed to do?” she asked, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“All this time, you’ve approached him directly,” Noctis said gently. “You tried speaking face-to-face. So this time… try something different.”
“What do you mean?”
“A letter.”
She blinked.
“What?”
Noctis reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
It was the letter she had left unfinished in the library.
He extended it toward her.
“Why don’t you complete it this time?”
Ilya stared at it.
Then slowly reached out and took it from his hand.
“Do you think this will work?”
“I don’t know,” Noctis replied honestly. “But there’s nothing wrong with trying.”
Ilya closed her eyes.
Her fingers tightened around the letter.
After a moment—
“…Alright,” she said, determination replacing hesitation. “I’ll do it.”
A faint smile formed on Noctis’s face.
“I will wish for your success, Miss Ilya.”
She turned to re-enter her room.
But before she closed the door—
“Ah. One last thing.”
She looked back at him.
“Don’t write it as a letter to convince someone,” Noctis said gently. “Write it to convey your feelings.”
Ilya nodded quietly.
Then the door closed.
—
The moment it did, Noctis’s expression changed.
Serious.
Focused.
‘Now… about that chandelier.’
He made his way to the central hall—the main entrance where the party would be held.
He stopped beneath the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Then he pulled the tear-shaped crystal from his pocket.
He looked up at the chandelier.
Then down at the crystal.
Then up again.
“Yep,” he murmured. “It’s the same.”
The pieces were aligning.
Now—
There was only one thing left.
To figure out the role of the chandelier.
