Chapter 4

Every candidate was deeply engrossed in learning when the final day of training arrived. As the session drew to a close, everyone gathered on the training grounds. The mentors stood alongside their respective groups, their faces filled with pride and expectation.

Alex stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the candidates. With a calm yet firm voice, he spoke, "For the past two months, you have all dedicated yourselves to learning, absorbing knowledge, and applying it in real-world scenarios. Watching your progress has been an invaluable experience—not just for you, but for us as well. Now is the time for you to step forward and make your mark. This is where your journey truly begins."

The candidates bowed their heads in deep respect, their voices uniting in a chorus of gratitude. "Thank you, Sir Alex, for your guidance."

Alex gave them a small, knowing smile before turning to leave. As he walked away, he paused for a brief moment, glancing back at them one last time. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a silent farewell, a quiet acknowledgment of the path they would now walk alone.

The mentors stepped forward, reinforcing Alex's words. "As you heard from Sir Alex, you may now return home, rest, and prepare for your final exam. We wish you all the best."

The candidates once again bowed and thanked their mentors before dispersing.

Maria silently retreated to her tent, gathering her belongings. Outside, a carriage awaited her. As she stepped out, Oliver was already there, waiting for her. Without a word, they climbed into the carriage, and it began its slow journey away from the Finance Department office.

As the wheels rolled forward, Maria instinctively glanced back. Through the open window of his office, she saw him—Alex. He stood there, watching her carriage disappear. Her heart clenched. The memory of that moment in the garden resurfaced, unbidden, and warmth spread across her cheeks.

She lowered her head, hoping Oliver wouldn't notice, but he did. He saw the blush, the distant look in her eyes. And he knew.

Trying to keep his voice steady, he asked, "Maria… are you okay?"

She didn't respond.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and suffocating. Oliver clenched his fists before finally voicing the question that had been gnawing at him for months. "Maria," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "do you remember the night you met the Duke?"

Maria stiffened. Her eyes widened as she turned to look at him, but she didn't say a word.

Oliver let out a bitter chuckle. "I don't mean to doubt you… I just want to understand where we stand. Maria, we've been together for six months, yet we barely talk. We don't know each other's favorite things. We don't share our dreams or fears. And I—" His voice cracked slightly before he continued, "I just want to know… do you still love him?"

Maria's breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She couldn't lie to him. Not after everything he had given her. Not when he was looking at her with so much pain hidden behind his forced smile.

Finally, she whispered, "Oliver… I don't know."

It was enough. It was all he needed to hear.

Oliver turned away, staring out the window as the sun began to set. The golden hues bathed the sky in a sorrowful glow, as if nature itself mourned alongside him. He inhaled deeply, swallowing the lump in his throat.

After a long moment, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. "Come with me."

The carriage stopped, and they stepped out onto an open field. Before them, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows.

"The sunset is beautiful, isn't it?" Oliver murmured.

Maria gazed at the sky, momentarily lost in its beauty. "Yes, it is."

She turned to him, expecting him to say something else, but he remained silent. He just stood there, staring at the fading light, his hands clenched at his sides.

They stayed like that for a while—two people standing side by side, yet miles apart.

When they finally returned to the carriage, neither spoke. The silence was unbearable, yet neither of them could break it.

When they reached their destination, Maria stepped out first. She hesitated, turning slightly as if to say something, but the words never came. Oliver simply gave her a small, tired smile before instructing the driver to take him home.

As the carriage rolled away, Maria felt a pang in her chest. But she ignored it.

Oliver arrived home to a warm welcome. His family had missed him dearly, and their joy upon seeing him was palpable. They gathered around the dinner table, laughter and chatter filling the air. But Oliver barely spoke. He smiled when required, nodded when expected, but his heart wasn't there.

His mother, ever perceptive, noticed. Later that night, she knocked on his door. "Oliver, are you awake?"

He opened the door, and she took one look at him—at his red, swollen eyes—and knew.

She sat beside him, her hands resting gently on his. "Oliver," she said softly, "what's wrong?"

He forced a smile. "Nothing, Mom. Everything's fine."

But she wasn't fooled. She could see the pain he was trying so hard to hide. Her eyes, warm and patient, told him everything he needed to hear.

I'm here. You can tell me anything.

And just like that, the dam broke.

Tears streamed down Oliver's face as he choked out the words, "Mom… I love her. I love her so much. But no matter what I do, no matter how much time passes… her heart still belongs to him."

His mother's heart ached for him. She gently pulled him into an embrace, stroking his hair like she did when he was a child.

Oliver sobbed, his body trembling as he let go of everything he had been holding in. "Why… why does it hurt so much?"

His mother didn't have an answer. She just held him, allowing him to break in the safety of her arms.

After what felt like an eternity, Oliver finally pulled away, wiping his tears. His voice was hoarse when he murmured, "I'll be okay."

His mother cupped his face, her eyes filled with nothing but love. "You will," she promised.

Just then, a voice from the doorway spoke. "You did your best, son."

Oliver looked up to see his father standing there, a quiet understanding in his eyes.

Oliver swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you, Dad."

His parents stood with him a little longer before bidding him goodnight.

When they left, Oliver sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor.

The room was silent.

And for the first time in his life, he truly understood what heartbreak felt like.

The next day, Oliver changed the way he spoke to Maria. He stopped teasing her, stopped calling her by affectionate names, and distanced himself in a way she couldn't ignore. Maria noticed the shift, but she said nothing.

One day, the Marquise handed Oliver two tickets. "There's a play in the capital," he said. "Take Maria with you. It will be a good experience."

Oliver took the tickets without hesitation, but his heart felt heavy. That evening, he arrived at Maria's home to escort her to the play. They sat in the carriage, riding in silence. The easy conversations they once had were now replaced with an emptiness neither of them dared to address.

The theater was grand, filled with noble families eager to watch the performance titled My Unsuccessful Love. The Marquise had arranged a private balcony for them. As they made their way inside, they exchanged greetings with familiar faces—people they had trained with, laughed with, and fought beside in the camp. But despite the company, Oliver felt lonelier than ever.

The play began.

It told the story of two childhood friends—a boy and a girl—who had grown up together. The boy had always loved her, but he never found the courage to confess. When they moved to the capital, they found their own paths—she became an assistant, and he joined the military.

One day, she fell in love with her superior and shared her feelings with her friend. He listened quietly, offering his support, though his heart ached with every word she spoke. Eventually, she confessed her love, and the man accepted. They were married, and the friend, with a bittersweet smile, watched from the sidelines.

Then, war broke out. The kingdom was losing, and all capable men were sent to the battlefield—including her husband. In desperation, she ran to her childhood friend, the one who had always been by her side, and begged him to protect the man she loved.

For her, he would do anything.

The battle was brutal, and in his effort to keep her husband safe, he was gravely wounded. But he kept his promise. The kingdom won the war, and her husband survived.

As he lay dying on the battlefield, the husband knelt beside him and asked, "Why? You knew this was a battlefield. You knew it would be either us or them. Why did you do this? Don't you have a reason to live?"

The friend, struggling to breathe, gave him a weak smile. "She loves you," he whispered. "She wouldn't survive losing you. You are her world."

The husband clenched his fists. "But what about you?" His voice trembled. "Didn't you love her too?"

A single tear slipped from the dying man's eye. He closed them briefly, as if trying to hold onto a memory. "Tell her… I kept my promise," he murmured. "She must live… and smile. That's all I ever wanted."

His breathing slowed. The battlefield was silent.

"Please," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "Remember me… as your friend. As family."

And then, he was gone.

The war ended. The soldiers returned. The woman stood anxiously, scanning every face, until she found her husband. She ran to him, threw her arms around him, and sobbed. But the moment she pulled away, her eyes searched desperately for the one who had always been there—her best friend.

Her husband didn't speak. Instead, he handed her the friend's bloodstained sword.

She stared at it, confusion and horror clouding her face. "Where… where is he?"

Her husband lowered his gaze.

"He's gone."

The sword slipped from her trembling fingers. She fell to her knees, shaking her head in disbelief.

"No," she whispered. "No, he promised me—he promised—"

Her voice broke.

The play ended, but the audience remained frozen, unable to move. Then, the silence was shattered as people erupted into applause. Some wept openly, mourning the man who had loved in silence and sacrificed everything. Others praised the story, the rawness of the emotions, and the depth of the performance.

As the final echoes of the play faded, a voice recited a poem—words that felt like they had been carved from Oliver's very soul:

He loved in silence, bore the pain,

A wish unspoken, love in vain.

He let her go, yet in his heart,

She lived—a dream torn apart.

Maria sat still, unable to look at Oliver. As the play unfolded, something inside her shifted—a quiet, aching realization she didn't want to face. The pain in the story, the unspoken love, the silent sacrifices… they felt too familiar.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she clenched them in her lap. She wasn't sure if it was guilt, regret, or something else. But one thing was certain—she didn't want to meet Oliver's eyes. Because if she did, she feared she might see the same heartbreak staring back at her.

And Oliver…

He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that never reached the eyes—a hollow, resigned curve of the lips, practiced for moments like this. Because, as the curtains fell and the audience cheered, he understood something cruel and irreversible.

Some love stories aren't meant to have happy endings.

Some hearts break not with a sound, but in the quiet, where no one can hear them shatter.

And some people… are destined to love from afar. Never to be chosen, never to be held—only to be remembered in the spaces between what could have been.

As they stepped outside, Maria still couldn't bring herself to say anything. The weight of the play, of unspoken words, of everything that had built up between them, pressed down on her chest like a stone.

Oliver, however, was calm. Too calm.

He turned to her, his voice light—too light. "It was a good play, wasn't it?"

Maria flinched.

The way he spoke, the way he carried himself, it was as if nothing had changed. As if he wasn't silently bleeding inside.

But she saw it. The cracks in his carefully crafted mask. The way his fingers curled into his palm for just a second before relaxing. The way his eyes, though warm, held a sadness so deep it almost drowned her.

She opened her mouth, wanting to say something—anything. But no words came.

So, she just nodded.

Oliver smiled, that same quiet, heartbreaking smile, and looked up at the night sky. "Some things," he murmured, "are just not meant to be."

And with that, he stepped forward, walking ahead—leaving Maria standing there, feeling as though she had lost something she never even knew she had.

Marquise Morgan remained unaware of the silent turmoil between Maria and Oliver. To him, everything seemed fine, and he believed it was time to discuss their marriage. With that thought in mind, he invited the Ferdinand family over for dinner.

The evening arrived, and the Ferdinand family was warmly welcomed into the Morgan estate. The grand dining table was set, the air filled with soft chatter and the clinking of cutlery. Maria and Oliver sat side by side, yet an invisible wall separated them. Maria, lost in her thoughts, barely touched her food. She hadn't spoken much since the play, and now, in Oliver's presence, she felt even more adrift.

Marquise noticed Maria's silence and mistook it for shyness. Smiling, he spoke, "I believe it's time we start preparing for the wedding."

The words landed like a thunderclap. The table fell into stunned silence. Maria stiffened. Oliver's fingers curled into a fist beneath the table.

Oliver's mother, Lady Ferdinand, sighed and set down her glass. "Marquise, do you truly not know?"

Confusion flickered across Marquise's face. "Know what?" His gaze shifted to Maria, but her expression spoke volumes—something was wrong.

Dinner concluded, and in the quiet aftermath, Oliver gently took Maria's hand. "Let's go for a walk."

They strolled through the gardens under the moon's silver glow, the scent of roses filling the air. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unsaid words. Then, Maria stopped.

"Oliver… I'm sorry. I—"

Oliver shook his head, cutting her off gently. "Miss Maria, I know."

Maria's breath hitched. Her eyes brimmed with tears, shimmering under the moonlight.

"Please don't cry," Oliver whispered, his voice barely above the rustling leaves.

Maria couldn't hold it in anymore. She sank to her knees, sobbing, her shoulders trembling. Oliver ached to reach for her, to hold her, but he didn't. Some distances could never be bridged.

Meanwhile, inside the estate, Marquise Morgan sat in the study with the Ferdinand family. Lady Ferdinand spoke, her voice gentle but firm, revealing the truth—Maria and Oliver could never be more than friends.

Marquise fell silent, absorbing the weight of her words. He had been blind to the pain his daughter had been carrying.

Back in the garden, Maria's sobs quieted. She wiped her eyes, her gaze lifting to the night sky. Oliver sat beside her.

"Miss Maria, can we still be friends?" he asked softly.

Maria turned to him, searching his face for resentment, for anger—but there was none? Just a quiet understanding.

She gave a small, teary smile. "Only if you stop calling me 'Miss.'"

Oliver chuckled. "Maria, you don't look good when you cry."

Maria's lips parted in mock offense. "You—!"

And for the first time in a long while, they laughed. The sound was light, fleeting, but it carried a sense of peace.

From a distance, Marquise Morgan, along with Oliver's parents, watched the scene unfold. Seeing their children laughing together, they felt a sense of relief, knowing that while love may not have blossomed, friendship remained.

As the night came to a close, the Ferdinand family took their leave. Before retiring for the night, Marquise called Maria into his study.

Maria stepped inside, her heart pounding. Her father stood by the window, his back turned to her.

"I'm sorry, Father," she said, her voice trembling. "I know how important this marriage was to you. I tried—I really did. But no matter what, I can't see Oliver as my husband. He's my friend, but I can't make him my family. I—I'm truly sorry."

Marquise remained silent. For a moment, Maria feared he was disappointed. Then, slowly, he turned.

"You don't have to feel sorry, Maria."

Her breath caught.

Gone was the nobleman who always spoke of duty and responsibility. Before her stood the father she had known as a child—the one who had once held her close, wiped her tears, and told her stories to chase away nightmares.

Marquise opened his arms.

Maria ran to him, burying her face in his chest as she broke down.

His embrace was warm, steady, and unshaken by the weight of the world.

"Don't cry, my daughter," he whispered, stroking her hair.

That night, for the first time in years, Maria let go of everything—her fears, her guilt, her burdens—and simply allowed herself to be a daughter in her father's arms.

And Marquise Morgan held her, as if trying to make up for all the times he had not.

Days after their last meeting, Oliver found himself once again at Maria's house. The question had been gnawing at him, keeping him awake at night.

If Maria still loved the Duke, then why had they divorced?

Something didn't add up.

Maria greeted him warmly, her soft smile masking the deep sorrow in her eyes. They sat together in the drawing room, their laughter filling the air, but Oliver wasn't here for small talk.

His voice was firm. "Maria, I need to ask you something."

She tilted her head. "Alright, what is it?"

He hesitated for a brief moment before asking, "Do you still love the Duke?"

The change in her expression was instant. She stilled, her cheeks flushing slightly, and without a word, she nodded.

Oliver's heart clenched.

"Then why did you two get divorced?"

Maria's fingers tightened around the fabric of her dress. A small, sorrowful smile played on her lips. "I don't know."

Oliver frowned. "What do you mean you don't know?"

She inhaled deeply, her hands trembling. "They say… I forgot some of my memories."

Oliver's breath hitched. "What?"

Maria swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I had an accident… at least, that's what they tell me. But no matter how hard I try—I can't remember." Her voice cracked. "I asked him. I begged him to tell me what I had forgotten." A single tear slipped down her cheek. "But every time, he only says: some memories are meant to be forgotten. And after that… we divorced."

Her quiet sobs filled the room, each one hitting Oliver like a knife to the chest.

His hands clenched into fists.

Maria was not the type of woman to forget something so important.

Something was wrong.

And Oliver was going to find out what.

A week later, Oliver received the report.

As he flipped through the pages, his stomach twisted into knots.

There was no accident.

Nothing.

Yet, Maria had lost her memories.

And then—he found it.

A rumor.

"The Duchess was pregnant… but they lost the baby. And after that, she lost her mind."

Oliver's blood ran cold.

Maria… had been pregnant?

His hands trembled as he gripped the report tightly. If she had been expecting a child, what happened? How did she lose the baby? And if there was no accident, then what really stole her memories?

The deeper he thought, the more tangled it became.

But one thing was crystal clear—

The Duke was lying.

And Oliver was done playing games.

That evening, Oliver stormed into the Northern Duke's estate, not bothering to knock.

The guards barely had time to react before he shoved the heavy double doors open, his boots thudding against the polished marble floors.

Thunder rumbled outside, and a violent gust of wind swept through the open hallway, rattling the windows.

He found the Duke in his study, sitting behind an ornate desk, a half-filled glass of whiskey in his hand.

The Duke looked up, his expression unreadable.

Oliver slammed the report onto the desk. Papers scattered.

"You're hiding something."

The Duke leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "And what makes you think that?"

Oliver's voice was sharp, razor-edged. "Maria was pregnant, wasn't she?"

The Duke's fingers twitched around his glass.

Oliver pushed harder.

"They say she lost the baby. That she lost her mind afterward. But there's no record of an accident. No explanation. Nothing."

The Duke remained silent.

Oliver's patience snapped.

He grabbed the whiskey glass and hurled it against the wall. It shattered, the liquid splattering across the Duke's pristine study.

The Duke's eyes darkened.

Oliver slammed his palms onto the desk, leaning in. "Say something. Damn it, say something!"

The Duke's voice was dangerously quiet. "You should leave."

Oliver laughed bitterly. "Leave? Oh, no. We're past that now. You loved her, didn't you?"

The Duke's grip on his chair tightened.

Oliver gritted his teeth. "Then why did you let her go? Why did you make her believe she forgot something that never happened?"

The Duke stood abruptly. "You don't understand—"

Oliver's fury exploded.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND?!"

His voice roared through the study.

"Then MAKE ME UNDERSTAND!"

The Duke's hands trembled. His entire body was rigid, as if he were holding himself together by sheer will.

Oliver took a step closer, his voice lethal. "Or is it because you're a coward?"

The Duke's eyes flashed.

Before Oliver could react, the Duke grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back against the bookshelves.

Oliver barely registered the pain in his back before the Duke's voice—**low, trembling with something dangerous—**cut through the room.

"You think I had a choice?"

Oliver didn't flinch.

The Duke's grip on his collar tightened. His breathing was ragged, his usually stoic expression cracked.

"You think this was something I wanted?" His voice was hoarse. "You think I stood by and watched her suffer because it didn't break me, too?"

Oliver grabbed the Duke's wrist, prying his fingers off.

"Then TELL ME," Oliver growled. "If it hurt you so much, then WHY?"

The Duke's eyes burned—a storm raging within them.

But he said nothing.

Oliver exhaled harshly, shoving the Duke back. "Fine. Stay silent."

He turned, heading for the door.

But then—

"If you tell her the truth..."

Oliver stopped.

The Duke's voice was low, exhausted, and filled with something that made Oliver's stomach twist.

"...you will destroy her."

Oliver's heart pounded.

He turned, staring at the Duke. "What do you mean?"

The Duke didn't answer.

Just… looked away.

As if he couldn't bear to face the weight of his own words.

Oliver's chest heaved, his anger still simmering beneath his skin.

But one thing was sure—

He wasn't stopping.

If the Duke wouldn't talk, then Oliver would rip apart everything until he uncovered the truth.

And this time—

Nothing would stop him.