On the first morning at White Night Castle, where a cold, white silence weighed down, only the sound of the merciless north wind beating against the walls tapped secretly at the window frame.

Across the dining table, the man sitting with a flawless and noble posture was Waldemar V. Valentine. In his bloodless, transparent silver eyes, there dwelt an unwavering arrogance and coldness.

However, deep within Guest's body, the terrible heat of last night throbbed like a tattoo. That rough breath that pressed down under the cover of darkness, the words of desire whispered as if to swallow her ears, and even the grip that seized her slender wrists. At night, he had indulged in and trampled upon Guest from head to toe like a beast starved for instinct. The traces of that oppressive affection shimmered with a chilling heat every time her thin silk dress touched them.

Yet, the man placed under the morning sunlight was so harshly cool that it was doubtful if he was the same husband who had just devoured Guest. Nowhere in his long, elegant hands handling the teacup did any remnants of last night exist.