MLS Chapter 23

More than ten dresses hung in Lorena’s small bedroom at the Klein residence—all newly ordered.

She stared into the mirror.

A stranger looked back at her, adorned in a way she had never seen before.

The first thing that caught her eye was the dazzling rose-colored dress. A silk gown that bared her straight shoulders and collarbones completely.

The delicate fabric clung to her body, leaving no room for modesty, while the full, cascading frills at the hem fluttered lightly with every movement, adding an air of opulent grandeur to an otherwise simple silhouette.

Against the striking color of the gown, Lorena’s skin gleamed like the smooth surface of a pearl. And when she let down the golden hair she had always kept neatly pinned, it rippled down her slender back—lustrous, enviable, the very shade admired by every woman in Motrel.

Hena, who had been assisting her, let out a quiet breath of admiration.

“I never thought you’d like a dress like this. It suits you beautifully.”

But Lorena found herself a stranger in her own reflection. She reached for her bare neck, fingers grazing the exposed skin again and again.

It wasn’t that she disliked revealing attire. But in the past, the moment she showed even the slightest bit of bare skin, scrutinizing gazes had followed her from every direction. So she had simply learned to cover up.

“What about a hat?”

“The largest and most extravagant one. It should match the dress.”

A wide-brimmed hat with a white ribbon was selected—it looked as though it had been made as a set with the dress itself. Lorena tied the ribbon beneath her ear.

“I need more color on my lips. Tonight, I need to look… vulgar.”

“Vulgar?”

Hena frowned slightly, her expression twisting into an awkward smile.

“That’s one of the last words I’d ever associate with you, Señora.”

If the duchess of the past had been the epitome of refined nobility, today she looked like the main attraction at a grand party—a woman who indulged in pleasure and leisure without a care.

Draped in bold red, she wasn’t the least bit garish. Instead, she exuded an intoxicating, provocative allure.

“That’s how it’s been… until now.”

Lorena picked up the rouge from her vanity.

“But after tonight, things will change.”

She murmured to herself as she painted her lips a deeper, more striking red—sealing her resolve with every stroke.

* * *

On Saturdays, Alborada buzzed with energy from the early afternoon.

The lounge, filled with men who had started their weekend early with light wine and sparkling water, had only one unusually quiet spot. Two sofas facing each other near the fireplace—a space that had become an unspoken reserved seat.

And, of course, its occupant was obvious.

Motrel’s infamous rake, who was said to practically live in Alborada seven days a week, was once again sprawled across the couch.

On any other day, people would have flocked to him, eager to exchange pleasantries. But today, he didn’t seem in the mood for idle chatter. He wasn’t drinking, nor was he smoking a cigar—his table sat empty, untouched.

That alone was enough to draw glances.

It wasn’t common.

After all, Motrel’s rake lived up to his name. He was the very embodiment of indulgence—drinking, smoking, poker, billiards, gambling—there was no pleasure he did not partake in. It was he who, a decade ago, had transformed Motrel’s stiff and dignified high society into a playground of entertainment and vice.

A hedonist who lived only for the moment—that was the phrase most often used to define Miguel Ervatos.

So what had changed?

But truth be told, it wasn’t just today.

His behavior had been odd for the past few weeks.

For a man without faith, he had been seen visiting the cathedral. He had spent long hours lost in thought, rolling something between his fingers instead of reaching for a drink.

And now—today—he kept checking his watch every ten minutes.

“Damn. The day is insufferably long.”

Miguel exhaled a frustrated sigh, his voice slipping through parted lips.

He let out a short laugh at himself, as if he found it ridiculous.

Sitting still, waiting like a well-trained guard dog—it didn’t suit him in the slightest.

And yet…

“I want you.”

That one sentence had refused to leave his mind all day.

He had fought the impulse to kick open the confessional door that night, to see her face, to confirm for himself the woman behind the voice.

But he had known.

An instinctive certainty had stopped him.

A certainty that if he just waited—just a little longer—she would come to him, in a much bigger, much more dramatic way.

And so, he had restrained himself. Played along with her little game.

Now, he regretted every second of it.

A glance at the clock on the wall.

Still 6 PM.

Two more hours before the hotel came alive for the night.

“Will you be at Alborada tomorrow?”

Lately, Miguel’s movements had been simple.

St. Vergos Cathedral. Alborada Hotel.

That was it.

He had no other reason to be anywhere else.

But the moment she had asked him that question, he had all but chained himself to this place.

He thought of the wedding ring he had retrieved just yesterday.

The jeweler had greeted him with an awkward smile, spouting some excuse about losing the original sketch of the ring.

‘She made her move first.’

Clever girl.

She certainly knew how to stoke a man’s pride—how to turn the chase into something irresistible.

To say he had no suspicions would be a lie.

Miguel had eyes. Ears. And an excellent sense for when something was amiss.

He knew exactly what the hottest scandal in Motrel was right now.

8 PM.

The top-floor lounge of the hotel was starting to fill.

Miguel shoved his hand into his pocket.

Fished out the wedding ring.

And watched it glint in the dim light.

Mi Canaria
He imagined the ring, which barely fit on the tip of his pinky finger, perfectly encircling her slender ring finger.

For years, it must have absorbed her warmth, clinging to her skin.

A trivial scene—one that shouldn’t have meant anything—yet it struck him with an odd intensity.

A ring that had never left her hand since the day her husband had placed it there now rested in his palm, a man with no connection to her.

The thought of her voice—soft as a bird’s chirp—filled his mind, and Miguel felt his chest expand with a deep breath.

8:30 PM.

“Hey, so you’re actually staying at the hotel tonight?”

The seat beside him dipped. A heavy hand clapped against his back, and Miguel snapped his head around with a curse.

“What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on me like some disrespectful brat?”

“I called your name. Several times. You just ignored me like an arrogant ass.”

It was Daniel Mora, eldest son of Mora Distillery, one of the men Miguel occasionally drank with.

Their circle often joked about Daniel being the “son of a water merchant,” but Mora produced the finest fortified wines in all of Bessen. In other words, his family was swimming in money.

They held no noble title, but in terms of wealth, they rivaled any aristocrat.

Daniel clicked his tongue before nudging Miguel pointedly.

“It’s about time for Jerez wine—pick a date.”

“Drinking Jerez wine” was their group’s code for a private gathering, an exclusive meeting among their ranks. But Miguel only half-registered his friend’s words, his attention drifting elsewhere.

Ah. My ring.

The sudden impact from Daniel’s hand had knocked the small ring from his pinky, sending it tumbling under the table.

The unevenly set diamonds made it bounce unpredictably, rolling across the floor before coming to a stop—against the tip of someone’s shoe.

“Tsk.”

Miguel clicked his tongue and stood from the sofa.

“Later, Daniel. Pick a date without me—at least for tonight, I’ve got better things to do.”

But before he could retrieve the ring, the owner of the shoe had already glanced down—faster than him.

“……?”

Vaye’s brow furrowed deeply as he recognized the glinting ornament at his feet.

What the hell was this?

He bent down and picked it up, his fingers closing around the small, familiar shape.

There was no mistaking it.

The one and only of its kind.

A ring he knew all too well.

Before he could process the implications, a voice—lazily indifferent—cut through his thoughts.

“Ah. Pardon me.”

Miguel extended his hand, wordlessly demanding its return.

Vaye met his gaze with a blank expression, unmoving.