The doctor adjusted the IV drip, checking the morning reports. Temperature normal. Blood work perfect. The bedside ultrasound and head CT showed no trauma.

Yet, for seven days, she hadn't moved.

"Mr. von Herheid, we can just wait for her own will to return," the doctor whispered.

Frederick leaned back against the silk-upholstered wall, eyes fixed on the motionless figure. He didn't have to do this. No name, no ID, no nationality.

He could have called an ambulance and let the public system handle the "tragedy." Or he could have just walked away.

A beautiful girl appearing out of nowhere in a private hunting ground was a classic trope. He'd seen the stunts before—women orchestrating "accidents" to catch the eye of the Herheid heir.

The memory of the rescue was still sharp. It had rained in the Blackwood Hunting Grounds that day. The air smelled of wet moss and deep earth.

Sensors had picked up a brown bear in the southern sector. They were cunning creatures, capable of avoiding technology and vanishing at the first crack of a rifle. Frederick had waited under a towering fir for two hours, his pulse steady, his patience absolute.

He struck a match, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette. The scent of bitter black coffee drifted into the damp air. His hunting dog suddenly tensed, ears forward. Frederick crushed the ember under his boot and shouldered the German-made rifle.

It was a precision instrument. Four adult bears had met their end through this scope—each a single, merciful shot. In the hunt, a quick death was the only kindness.

The bear appeared, a massive shadow moving through the brush to forage for winter fat. Frederick flicked the safety. He squinted, centering the crosshairs on the target's skull. His finger tightened on the trigger.

The bear paused, catching a scent of danger, and bolted into the thicket. Its massive weight crushed the shrubs, revealing a shock of snow-white fabric hidden in the roots. Frederick's focus fractured. The sudden displacement of white in the green-black forest pulled his aim.

Crack.

The shot tore through the quiet forest like a lightning strike. The bear vanished into the dark timber, the first trophy to ever escape his lead. Frederick lowered the gun, his black boots treading heavy prints into the mud as he approached the white shadow.

He pushed aside the black ferns. It wasn't a trick. It was a girl.

Her skin was deathly pale. A faint, shallow tremor in her chest was the only sign of life. Her white tracksuit was caked in filth and grass. Deep red scratches marred the lotus-pale skin of her lower legs.

This was the core of the Herheid Estate—miles of private forest fenced with wire and "No Trespassing" signs. He had no idea how she'd breached the perimeter or how long she'd been lying in the rot. She looked like a broken bird lost in a storm.

Frederick's gaze lingered on her, sharp and searching. He let out a low, rough sigh. "Poor tiny birdie...".

He traced a cross over his forehead in a silent prayer, a sliver of sunlight catching the high bridge of his nose. "May God bless you." He scooped her up, ignoring the mud staining his grey-green wool coat.

Pity was usually a precursor to trouble. The calls from Zurich were already starting, family members prying into the "mystery woman" at the manor. There was talk of the long-delayed marriage arrangements again.

Frederick rested his elbow on the sofa arm, eyes closed, weighing the complications. A soft, muffled groan broke the silence of the room.

His eyes snapped open. Arabella felt as if her eyes were rusted shut. The world was a blur of gold leaf and heavy velvet.

Complex carvings glowed under the sunset. Gilded curtains, brass chandeliers, a blue velvet sofa. Her mind was a blank slate. Then, she saw him.

The man sat motionless. Blonde hair, deep blue eyes, a physique that looked like it had been chiseled from marble. He watched her with the focus of a hunter.

Arabella blinked slowly, her throat parched. "Who... are you?" Her voice was a raspy thread of Mandarin.

A ripple of movement finally broke Frederick's composure. He stood, his massive frame blocking the light and casting a long shadow over the bed. He offered a gentle, practiced smile.

"You're awake, Birdie." 

A large hand gently steadied her shoulder. "You're safe."

His gaze softened.

"My name is Frederick Heinrich von Herheid. You collapsed in my hunting ground a week ago".

He leaned in closer. "I found you".