The house was not empty.

As they descended the grand staircase, the hollow silence of the Herheid Estate began to breathe. People in matching black-and-white uniforms moved through the halls with practiced efficiency. They bowed as Frederick passed, murmuring greetings in a language Arabella didn't understand.

Arabella flinched away from the strangers, her shoulder pressing hard against Frederick's arm. Frederick didn't pull away. He let her cling to him, the heat from his muscular frame radiating through the fine fabric of his shirt.

"They aren't your family," Arabella whispered once the staff had passed.

"Clever bird," Frederick replied, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

Arabella's spirit lifted at the praise. "You don't talk to them. If they were family, you'd have things to say. Are they your subordinates?"

"Estate staff. If you need anything, find them."

Arabella shook her head, her grip on his sleeve tightening. "I won't find them. I'll just find you."

The dining hall was a sea of white satin and orange lilies. Silver candelabras and crystal goblets caught the light, making even the simplest garnish look like a luxury. Harold, the head butler, stood at the entrance with a bow.

"Good evening, My Lady. Good evening, Sir."

Arabella eyed the middle-aged man with suspicion. Frederick tapped the small of her back—a light, grounding touch. "Don't be afraid. This is my butler, Harold. He speaks Mandarin."

Harold offered a kind, brown-eyed smile. Arabella relaxed, waving a hand with a sweet grin. "Hello, Harold. I'm the Birdie Frederick found."

A low, short rumble vibrated in Frederick's chest. The sound was a ghost of a laugh, resonant and deep. Arabella looked up, her amber-gold eyes wide with confusion. "What's funny?"

"Nothing," Frederick said. He turned to Harold, switching to sharp, clinical German.

Harold nodded, his expression softening with pity for the amnesiac girl. "My Lady, your dinner is served," he said in accented Chinese. "Please, follow me."

They sat at a table that felt a mile long. Course after course arrived: lobster in cream, curry crab, snails in garlic butter, and lamb ribs that smelled of fresh grain.

The disappointment about the chocolate cake vanished. Arabella beamed across the table at Frederick. "I love this dinner! You're so good to me, Frederick. I think I love you even more now."

Harold's lips quirked. Frederick merely shook his head, handing his suit jacket to a maid. He watched her, wondering if she had been this impulsive before the accident—or if a lover in her past life had taught her to throw the word "love" around so recklessly.

The thought caused a ripple of irritation to stir in his chest. He took a slow, cold sip of his pre-dinner drink.

Arabella was already tearing into the lamb. Frederick had ordered the staff to provide her with only the essential utensils to avoid confusing her. On his side of the table, nine pieces of silver lay in a precise, intimidating row.

"My Lady," Harold said, uncorking a bottle of chilled white wine. "Try the Chardonnay with the snails. It enhances the flavor."

Arabella sniffed the glass, her eyes sparkling. "Wine! Can I have some, Frederick?"

Frederick's gaze shifted to Harold, flat and neutral. The butler immediately lowered his head in a silent apology; he had forgotten she was recovering from a concussion.

"It's best you don't," Frederick said, dabbing a white cloth against his lip. "But... if you insist, one sip."

Arabella didn't wait. She drained the entire glass in one go.

"This is amazing," she sighed, her eyes bright with the sudden hit of alcohol. "It's sour and sweet. I want another one, Harold!"

Harold retreated, clutching the bottle like a shield. He looked ready to dive behind the heavy velvet curtains.

"Harold? Why are you hiding in the drapes?" Arabella laughed, her voice ringing through the hall.

She stood up to follow him, but Frederick was faster. He rose, his 190cm frame dominating the room. He rounded the table with a cold, predatory grace and clamped his hand over her crystal glass.

"Any more and you'll be drunk."

"One more glass," Arabella pouted. Her cheeks were already blooming with a faint rose. "Just the last one..."

"Not a drop. You broke the rules, Bird."

"Fine," she huffed. "If you won't give it to me, I don't love you anymore. But... if you give me another glass, I'll love you again."

In her world, love was clearly a currency to be spent at the negotiation table. Frederick's blue eyes darkened to the color of a stormy sea. He ignored her childish bargaining and gave a short, final command in German.

A maid set a plate on the table, heaped with strawberries and chocolate shavings.

"Chocolate cake!"

Arabella reached for a fork, but Frederick's hand clamped around her wrist. His palm was broad and hot against her skin. She gave a sharp, involuntary shiver.

"Frederick?" She looked up, her amber eyes glazed with alcohol.

Frederick stared down at her. The gentle mask was gone, replaced by a lethal sense of control. He looked less like a doting protector and more like a father ready to punish a disobedient child.

"One choice: the cake or the wine".

Arabella opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. "Try to act spoiled, and you get neither".

"Understand, little drunkard?".

Arabella nodded, her shoulders slumping. Frederick gave her a thin smile and pushed the plate toward her.

She finished the entire slice. Then she licked a smear of frosting from her lip.

"This isn't chocolate mousse. It's blueberry cake with shavings on top".

"You lied. I should have picked the wine".

Frederick's fingers tightened on his glass. He drained the rest of his whiskey in one go.

Arabella leaned back, her stomach rounded under the silk of her gown. The wine was finally hitting. Her cheeks burned a deep crimson.

"Drunk yet, little drunkard?" Frederick asked.

"Not... not at all," she giggled.

"Can you walk back?".

Arabella shook her head frantically at the thought of the long corridor. She raised her arms toward him. "Carry me".

Harold stood in the corner, his jaw nearly hitting the floor.

Frederick didn't move. He watched her for several seconds before reaching for his cuffs.

He unfastened a pair of turquoise cufflinks encrusted with diamonds. He dropped them into an empty crystal glass with a sharp clink.

He rolled his sleeves twice, revealing the hard, muscular lines of his forearms. His skin was a light wheat color, covered in a fine layer of gold hair.

Arabella's eyes widened at the sight of his veins. She shoved her own sleeve up, exposing an arm as pale and smooth as silk.

She pressed her arm against his. The contrast was jarring.

"Look. Your arm is twice as thick as mine".

She flexed her muscles, trying to look tough. "I can be hard, too. Just like you".

Frederick looked down at the two arms—one thick and dark, one thin and pale. A rough heat surged through his chest.

He reached out and pulled her sleeve back down. "Don't show your body to strangers".

"It's just my arm," she muttered. "And you aren't a stranger".

Frederick leaned in, his gaze fixed on her flushed face. "Don't be careless. Learn to protect yourself".

"Germany isn't as safe as you think. Some people look decent, but in reality...". He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They are perverts".

"What's a pervert?" she asked blankly.

"A bad person. Someone with evil thoughts who wants to hurt you".

Arabella went quiet, staring into space. Frederick watched her, assuming she was reflecting on his words.

She nodded slowly. "Then I'll only show you. You aren't a pervert".

Frederick froze. A dark, unreadable look crossed his blue eyes.

He gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look up. His fingertips were calloused. Her skin felt like soft, fragile silk under his touch.

"Don't trust anyone too much, Birdie".

"You're different, Frederick," she said, her voice absolute. In her mind, he was the first person she saw. He was everything.

"Same with me," he replied.