Delphine nearly felt herself being burned and melted under Ignatius Leclair's piercing gaze. The man's handsome and noble face remained perfectly still as he stared at her, making her hands and feet feel cold. Instinctively, she wanted to avoid him.
She once fell into this man's sweet trap, among the aristocratic sons of the Southern Seas, Ignatius ranked second, and no one dared to claim first. She had traveled through mountains and rivers, witnessed darkness and auroras, and in the dreams of midnight, her ears were filled with the man's tender and lingering whispers: "Little Delphine."
Upon waking, she was met with the loneliness of solitude and a past too dark to touch. She tried to gouge this figure out from her heart over and over, until it was bloody and raw. Gradually, she learned to hide her desolation and unease, becoming cold and indifferent, lifting her eyes to call out, neither sad nor happy, "Young Master Leclair."
