The table was crowded with glasses filled with amber whisky.

Clara looked up, her gaze landing on Night. She wanted a definitive answer from him, but in the dim, moody lighting of the suite, his expression was impossible to read.

In the heavy silence, Clara felt as if the oxygen was being sucked out of the room.

As she struggled for breath, memories of the past flooded her mind.

When they first moved into the old manor, Night—blinded and broken—had relied on alcohol to numb his daily agony. She had worried constantly about his health, pleading with him to stop, but he never listened.

Until one night, in a drunken haze, he let out a mocking laugh and pushed several bottles toward her.

"Even a servant’s daughter thinks she can control me now? Has it really come to this—the fallen lion bullied by a dog? Fine. If you drink all of this, I’ll listen to you."

Clara had wanted to tell him that she wasn't trying to control him; she was... worried about him.

Even though she was severely allergic to alcohol, she didn't hesitate for a single second. For his sake, she picked up a bottle and drained it.

Minutes later, she was rushed to the emergency room.

When she finally woke up, she saw him sitting by her hospital bed, his face darkened with rage. "I’m the one who’s supposed to be drunk, not you! You knew you were allergic—why would you gamble with your life like that?"

Clara had only given him one answer.

"Because I worry about you, Master Night. Your eyes will see again one day. And even if they don't, I’ll stay by your side forever. So, please, don't give up on yourself, okay?"

From that day on, Night never touched a drop of alcohol again.

For years afterward, not a single bottle of liquor could be found in their home.

Recalling this, Clara let out a soft, hollow laugh, tears shimmering in her eyes.

She offered no further explanation. Instead, she reached for a jar of mustard powder on the side and poured it into the glasses, her voice filled with a chilling resolve.

"Just these drinks? How can that possibly show my sincerity? I’ll add my own punishment. Will this be enough?"

She picked up a glass and tilted her head back, pouring the liquid down her throat. One glass, then another.

The stinging, bitter taste scorched its way down, seizing her stomach and reaching for the heart that it could never truly touch.

By the seventh glass, Night finally reached his breaking point.

"Enough!" he roared.

Looking at the dozen or so untouched glasses remaining, Clara smiled.

"Is that all? Does this count as a proper apology? Is your sweetheart satisfied yet?"

Night lunged to his feet and grabbed her wrist. His usually stoic face was now so dark it looked like a brewing storm.

"You know damn well that’s not what I meant! Clara, I told you—Selene and I are over. My family doesn't approve of you. If you do something so reckless, people will use it against you. I just don't want you to be criticized or made to feel small!"

Night spoke with such conviction, his logic sounding almost reasonable.

But Clara burst into laughter.

If the Knightley family didn't approve of a "lowly servant’s daughter," would they really approve of Selene Young, a woman who had repaid kindness with betrayal?

And yet, despite all the obstacles, hadn't he married Selene the moment she asked?

Everything else was just an excuse for a lack of love.

Clara had no desire for further useless words. She wrenched her hand free and turned to leave.

But as she reached the door, her body swayed, and the world went black.

"Clara!"

Night’s heart skipped a violent beat. Without a thought, he rushed forward to catch her, sweeping her into his arms.

Selene quickly grabbed his sleeve, calling out with a sob, "Night, I... I feel dizzy."

Night froze for a few seconds.

But he didn't stay. He strode out of the room, leaving behind only a cold command.

"I’m taking Clara to the hospital. Call an assistant to look after you."

When Clara woke up, she found herself in a hospital bed.

Night, who clearly hadn't slept all night, breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her open her eyes.

They stared at each other for a long time in silence.

Night poured a glass of warm water and handed it to her, tucked in the corners of her blanket, and then got up to consult with the doctor about her check-up, patiently noting down every precaution.

His secretary called several times about urgent meetings, but he canceled them all.

Seeing the secretary’s troubled face at the door, Clara finally spoke. "Go to your meetings. I can take care of myself. You shouldn't be doing these things anyway."

Night’s hand, which was holding a fruit knife, paused. His voice was slow and heavy. "I should be doing everything for you, Clara. Have you forgotten? You took care of me the same way back then."

A dazed look flickered in Clara’s eyes.

Back then, because of his blindness, he had been discarded by the elite like a broken pawn.

She was the only one who taught herself Braille to tutor him, who sat with him through every lesson, who took him out to feel the sun, and who prepared all his favorite meals...

It was as if she had claimed the moon for herself; her once-dim life had been turned into bright day because of him.

Those seven years, now gone, had been the most precious joy of her life.

Unfortunately, the moon never belonged to her, and she could never go back to the past.

That afternoon, a doctor led Clara into the examination room.

Half an hour later, a nurse helped her back to her ward.

Just as the door pushed open, she saw Night holding her phone. His brow was knit tight as he spoke into the receiver with a voice of ice, addressing Mrs. Knightley.

"I’ve told you, Clara and I are in love. I don't care about her background, so don't waste your breath. I am going to marry her, and she will never leave me."

Hearing the door, he looked up at her. In the next second, Mrs. Knightley’s confused voice came through the speaker.

"What do you mean she won't leave? Don't you know? Clara Jiang already promised me a few days ago that she was going abroad..."