The trouble only mounted the moment the Birdie woke up.

Frederick massaged the bridge of his nose, the skin tightening under his touch. The nurse had mentioned a warm compress, and he reached for the bell to summon a maid. A frantic splash echoed from the bathroom.

"Have you thought of anything yet? I feel like I'm going to die!"

The bird was ready to blow the bathroom apart before the maid could even reach the stairs. Frederick took a sharp, steadying breath. His gaze swept the bedroom, landing on a gold and enamel punch bowl displayed on the mantle.

The antique was a relic of the late Qing Dynasty, commissioned by German royals centuries ago. He dialed the water dispenser to 65 degrees and filled the priceless porcelain. He stopped at the bathroom door and gave a sharp, gentlemanly knock.

"Birdie, try the compress yourself first," Frederick said, his voice a disciplined baritone. "The water is at the door. Be careful—it's hot. There is a sterilization cabinet above the sink with fresh towels."

He laid out the instructions like a professor, meticulous and patient. A sharp gasp of pain was his only answer.

"I can't move..." Arabella's voice was a strained whisper.

The implication hung heavy in the air. Frederick's grip tightened on the antique bowl until his knuckles turned a stark white. A dark, swirling current of discomfort settled in his chest.

He couldn't decide if this girl was truly innocent or just dangerously naive. She possessed no basic defense mechanism against a stranger; her trust was absolute and unearned. It made him itch with a strange, foreign irritation.

He felt his back muscles pull taut against the fine silk of his shirt. He was too involved. He never should have brought her back to the Herheid Estate.

It was a domino effect he hadn't intended to start. From the moment he scooped her out of the Blackwood Forest, the situation had spiraled out of his control, inch by inch, yard by yard. He needed to stop this absurdity and send her away.

"Frederick? Frederick, are you still there?" Her voice spiked with panic. "Did you leave? Frederick—"

"I'm here," he barked, centering himself. He took another breath. "Get ready. I'm coming in."

He turned the ornate golden handle. The door, as expected, was unlocked. He stepped inside and found her huddled on the toilet, cornered by her own anatomy. His eyes lingered on her beige-stockinged feet for a heartbeat before he jerked his gaze away.

He snatched a fresh towel, folded it, and dunked it into the steaming bowl. He wrung it out until it was damp and hot. Then, he reached over and cranked the sink faucet to full blast, letting the water roar.

He shut his eyes tight. Calculating the distance in his head, he took three precise steps until he stood directly in front of her.

"Apply this," he said, his Mandarin perfectly clipped. "The heat will help."

Arabella kept her head ducked low, her face a deep crimson. She snatched the towel and pressed it against herself, her breathing shallow and ragged. The warmth eased the stinging pressure, but the towel cooled quickly in the drafty room.

She reached out and gave the seam of his suit trousers a timid tug. "It's... it's not hot anymore," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the faucet.

Frederick didn't open his eyes. He reached back, found the bowl, and soaked the towel again. He repeated the process three times while the water thundered in the sink.

Finally, the blockage broke. A small, rhythmic splashing sound followed. The roar of the faucet acted as a gentlemanly shield, sparing her the embarrassment of the silence.

Seconds stretched into what felt like a century for Frederick.

"I'm done..."

Arabella scrambled to pull up her silk underwear. She caught a glimpse of Frederick's sharp, uncompromising jawline and looked away. "You can open your eyes now."

"Are you dressed?" He kept his lids pressed shut.

"Yes... yes, I'm fine."

Frederick opened his eyes just as a lake-blue blur darted past him. Her flannel gown whipped around the doorframe like a ghost. He felt his throat tighten. The tension in his shoulders began to bleed away, replaced by his usual, cold elegance.

He turned to leave but stopped. This ancient wing of the estate lacked modern smart systems; the toilet was a heavy, manual relic. Frederick stepped to the porcelain tank and jammed his thumb onto the flush button, the veins in his hand bulging with the force.

"Clumsy little bird..." he muttered.

The words were low, carrying an unreadable weight. He stooped down, retrieved the used towel from the floor, and folded the soiled fabric before dropping it into the bin. He couldn't imagine how she would survive in a relief center if she couldn't even remember to flush.

Arabella had already forgotten the embarrassment. The moment Frederick stepped into the hall, she latched onto him, following him like a shadow.

The guest suite was far from the core of the Manor House. They descended the grand staircase and crossed through the gardens before entering a corridor a hundred meters long. Inside the main building, the decor shifted from elegant to oppressive wealth.

"It's so beautiful!"

They were walking through the "Path of Pink Angels." Every inch was a Rococo dream: pink walls, floral carpets, and rose-patterned reliefs. Ornate arched windows lined the wall every two meters, and crystal chandeliers turned the twilight outside into a distant memory.

"Frederick, where are we, really?" Arabella's cheeks were flushed with a rosy glow.

The light suited her. She belonged in this airy, gilded world. Frederick, in his dark navy suit and every button fastened to the chin, looked like an interloper from a colder climate.

"I told you," he said. "This is my home."

"Your home is gorgeous! Pink is my favorite!" She beamed at the ceiling. "It's just a long walk for dinner. Can't we just eat in the bedroom?"

Frederick let out a short, dry laugh. The bird was already looking for comforts, yet she had no sense of the rules.

"Are you a prince?" she asked suddenly.

Frederick stopped, his expression hardening. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because you live in a palace," Arabella said, spinning in a circle. Her blue hem fluttered like a flower petal. "I love it here. It feels like my own home. And you're so handsome—I love you, too!"

Frederick's smile vanished. "Birdie, don't throw that word around. 'Love' is a serious thing. Don't use it lightly."

In Germany, people were careful with their words. Love required responsibility, a burden not everyone was prepared to carry.

"I am being serious," Arabella insisted, stopping in front of him. "I love you, Frederick." Her attention snapped away instantly as she spotted a massive canvas. "Who is that?"

She ran toward a portrait that stood taller than she was. It was a family scene.

A man stood with an aura of absolute authority behind a Baroque sofa, his hand resting on a golden cane. On the sofa sat a regal woman in a diamond crown, her palm resting over a pregnant belly. A few paces away, a boy of ten stood by a white piano. He was dressed in a formal suit, his blonde hair slicked back, his eyes a cold, sapphire blue.

Arabella stared at the boy. A sudden, unexplained sadness washed over her.

"Just irrelevant people," Frederick said, his voice flat.

"If they're irrelevant, why are they hanging here?"

"You're right. I'll have it removed tomorrow." Frederick stepped beside her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He refused to look at the painting. "Is it that interesting, Birdie?"

"It looks strange," she murmured.

"How so?"

"A family portrait should look happy," Arabella said, locking eyes with the boy on the canvas. "But this is heavy... and gloomy. Why is the boy standing so far away? Frederick!" She gasped, her voice rising. "He has blue eyes just like yours! Is he—"

Frederick stepped into her line of sight, his massive frame blocking the painting entirely. He was standing far closer than a gentleman should, the heat radiating from his chest pressing against her face.

Arabella wasn't afraid, but a primal instinct made her scalp tingle. A sense of danger clouded the air.

"I thought I heard a stomach growling," Frederick said, his voice a low, vibrating purr.

Her focus shattered. She looked up at him, her amber eyes wide. "My stomach isn't growling now!"

"My mistake," Frederick nodded. "If you aren't hungry, I'll have the staff clear the table."

"Wait! I am hungry!" Arabella thrust her stomach forward. "Look! It's totally flat! Feel it!"

She was utterly without boundaries. Frederick's eyebrows twitched with a mix of helplessness and irritation.

"Pull your stomach in, Birdie," he said, his finger pointedly marking the air between them. "Don't let a man touch you there. Don't say 'love' to strangers. And stop looking around. Those are bad habits. Disobedient children don't get fed."

His tone was gentle, but Arabella felt the bite in it. She went quiet, fearing the loss of her dinner.

As they reached the end of the corridor, she cast one last look over her shoulder. The painting was gone, hidden behind a sea of rose-colored silk. She realized they hadn't seen a single soul the entire walk. The silence was absolute, echoing with a stillness that felt almost predatory.

Frederick called this a home, but Arabella couldn't understand why it felt so much like a cage.