That photo had been hidden deep within the bookshelf, wedged between the layers.
I searched through every shelf, every crevice, until finally—inside a thick, dusty book—I found it.
The moment I pulled it out, my eyes burned with tears.
The little boy in the picture—his nose, his mouth—they were identical to mine when I was a child.
But his eyes… they were unmistakably Falco’s.
From Fynn’s conversation yesterday, all I had managed to gather was that the child was in an orphanage.
But which one? That, I still didn’t know.
***
The next day, I hosted a family gathering at the villa.
On the surface, it was to celebrate a joyous occasion—both Yvone and I were pregnant, a double blessing for the family.
But in reality, I had only one goal:
To get them to slip up and reveal the orphanage’s location.
***
Fynn glanced at me, curious. “Why the sudden idea to host a family gathering? I thought you had your check-up scheduled today.”
I smiled. “Yvone is pregnant too. It’s a double celebration—shouldn’t we all come together for it?”
“Alright, if that’s what you want.”
The moment he realized he’d get to see Yvone at the gathering, his mood noticeably lifted.
That morning, he spent an absurd amount of time in front of the mirror, meticulously fixing his hair. He even put on his most expensive, custom-tailored suit.
Watching him, a memory stirred—
Shortly after we got married, I had stumbled upon Fynn’s secret hideout in the basement.
The room was packed with photo albums, stacks of journals filled with page after page of longing.
Every word, every image—dedicated to one woman.
I had asked him then, “Who is she?”
Fynn’s expression stiffened for a moment before he quickly brushed it off.
"She was my first love."
It was a vague, careless answer, but I didn’t push. Everyone has a past and I had no reason to pry.
I just never imagined that she was Yvone.
By the time I arrived, Falco and Yvone were already seated on the lawn.
Her six-month pregnant belly stretched against the fabric of her dress as she loomed over a small boy—no older than three—her voice sharp with disgust.
“You filthy little bastard, are you blind?”
“Do you have any idea how expensive this dress is? Even if I sold your heart and liver, it wouldn’t be enough to pay for it. Maybe I should just cut off your hands so you’ll learn to be more careful.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
The boy’s face—his nose, his mouth—was almost identical to my own when I was his age.
And his eyes… were just like Falco’s.
It was him.
Benedict.
He had been carrying a tray of coffee when, by accident, a few drops spilled onto Yvone’s dress.
For that, she had whipped him.
He lay curled on the ground, trembling, his tiny hands clutching the dirt as he choked out desperate pleas.
“I-I didn’t mean to!”
“Please, I’m sorry—please don’t hit me!”
Then I saw them.
Scars.
Some old, some fresh. Thin, deliberate slashes across his arms, his legs—marks from a blade. Others were deep, red welts, as if someone had struck him over and over with a whip.
And through it all, Falco stood nearby, watching with nothing but cold amusement.
His lips curled into a smirk.
“Apologize to Aunt Yvone like your life depends on it.”
“If she’s in a good mood, maybe she’ll let you get up.”
“Don’t forget—you only got out of that miserable orphanage because Aunt Yvone was generous enough to bring you here. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll learn to be a good little dog.”
Falco chuckled as he fed Yvone a grape, his gaze filled with indulgence. She leaned into him, basking in his affection, while just a few feet away, a child was being humiliated.
Benedict—only three years old—lowered his head, his small hands clenched into fists. His eyes, far too calm for a boy his age, held a quiet defiance.
Still, he obeyed. He dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry.”
Yvone smirked, crossing her arms as she lifted a perfectly manicured foot.
“If you’re really sorry, then prove it. Lick my shoe clean.”
I felt my breath catch.
Benedict hesitated. And then—he actually started leaning forward.
“Stop!” My voice rang out sharp.
In an instant, I stepped between them, pulling Benedict into my arms. My heart pounded as I glared at Yvone, fury blazing in my chest.
“He’s just a child! Have you completely lost your mind?”
I had once called Yvone my friend. My sister.
But the woman standing before me now? She was nothing but a monster.
Yvone tilted her head, amused by my outburst. Her lips curled into a mocking smile.
“Oh, it’s you, sister-in-law. Relax. He’s just a worthless little orphan, a charity case from the welfare home. No parents, no family—he should be grateful I even let him breathe the same air as me.”
She glanced down at Benedict, then back up at me, a knowing gleam in her eyes.
“Funny, though. The way you’re protecting him like this… Anyone would think he’s your own son.”
