The cigarette had burned halfway down, ash hanging on the verge of falling, yet Damien seemed completely unaware as he stared out the window.
He felt restless, and this state had lingered for quite some time.
It had been nearly a year since the car accident.
The furnishings of the estate remained exactly as they had been, without the slightest change.
Even after Ava moved in openly and suggested changes here and there several times, Damien had never agreed.
But she clearly hadn't given up.
That evening, the moment he returned, he noticed something was different about the first-floor living room.
The bookcase beside the sofa was gone, and the rug on the floor had been replaced with a new pattern.
Ronan ran around holding a toy gun, making rattling sounds, and crashed straight into Damien's chest.
Tilting his head up, the muzzle pointed at Damien, he shouted in a muffled voice, "Bad guy, hands up!"
Damien had no mood to play along. His nerves felt tightly wound, his entire state off.
Irritated, he loosened his tie and took a long stride toward the sofa, only for his son to grab onto his pant leg.
Ronan refused to let go, continuing to pester him, "Bad guy, hurry up and put your hands up!"
The last shred of patience finally snapped. Damien reached out, grabbed the back of Ronan's collar, and lifted him halfway off the floor.
His voice rose before he realized it, "Where is everyone? Just letting him run wild like this?"
With his other hand, he snatched the toy gun from his son and slammed it hard onto the floor.
With a sharp crack, the toy gun shattered into pieces.
The newly hired housekeeper and the servants rushed out from all directions, while Ava appeared at the top of the second-floor stairs, a face mask still on.
Unhurried, she said, "What's going on? Why are you yelling at our son the moment you get home?"
Damien cast her a cold glance and casually handed the wailing Ronan to the new housekeeper.
"Didn't I say that without my permission, nothing in this house is to be changed?"
Ava clearly understood at once where his anger was coming from.
A look of grievance surfaced on her face, her voice turning timid, completely unlike the composed mistress she had been moments ago.
"Don't be mad. Ronan accidentally bumped into the corners of that bookcase several times. I was just worried he might get hurt. As for the rug, Ronan liked it. He kept insisting on buying it. I couldn't exactly say no to my son, could I?"
There it was again.
Damien had lost count of how many times Ava had used Ronan as an excuse.
He wanted to say something but swallowed it back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the house staff standing around, all ears, waiting.
With a frustrated tug, he pulled off his tie and tossed it onto the sofa, then strode toward the study.
"Put everything back. Exactly the way it was."
But as he passed the corner of the second floor, Ava reached out and grabbed his arm, her eyes timid yet resentful.
"Damien, you're scaring me like this. Do you have another woman?"
Damien pulled his arm back with a cold expression. Just as he was about to leave, she wrapped herself tightly around him from behind.
Hearing Ava's voice on the verge of tears as she repeatedly apologized, his heart softened despite himself.
"No."
Back in the study, he sank into his chair, his emotions tangled and heavy.
He hadn't thought about Lydia in a very long time.
In the days right after the accident, he'd felt a faint sense of guilt. But Ava's tenderness quickly pushed it all to the back of his mind.
He had always been a devoted practitioner of self-interest.
Lydia could have remained his wife in peace, as long as she stayed obedient and compliant.
He had never once thought about divorcing her.
But she had bad luck, just like her mother.
That wasn't Damien's fault.
Lately, though, she surfaced in his thoughts from time to time. He even woke from nightmares more than once in the middle of the night.
Drenched in cold sweat, he recalled how she looked in his dreams, her face drained of all color, her eyes hollow.
Lydia kept asking him over and over, "Why didn't you come? You promised me."
On the living room sofa, she used to curl up there waiting for him, casually flipping through books from the nearby shelf.
Sometimes when he came home, he'd see her curled up fast asleep, a book slipping from her body onto the rug.
Her feet were bare, slippers scattered across the floor.
At the slightest sound, she'd wake abruptly, rubbing sleepy eyes and looking at him with unhidden delight.
Damien didn't want to admit it, but that image had once comforted him through many difficult moments.
Someone who trusted him without conditions, who was willing to wait for him like that, he hadn't been incapable of loving her.
The clouds were thick as the aircraft cut through them, revealing Crownford's dazzling, ornate nightscape below.
Julian adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and glanced toward Lydia beside him.
She was looking outside, her expression grave.
In the half year since Richard's passing, she had kept herself largely secluded.
Henry Bailey had continued treating her and spoke highly of her cooperation as a patient.
The rest of the time, she immersed herself almost greedily in learning corporate management.
Even now, Elena remained a mystery to the world. She had never appeared publicly at any event.
The only footage journalists had of her came from Richard's funeral.
Dressed in black and sheltered beneath an enormous black umbrella, she radiated an unapproachable sense of distance.
In private, the more Julian learned about her past, the more his heart ached for the person she had once been.
He devoted himself almost entirely to caring for her, just as Richard had said, becoming her strongest support in this world without hesitation.
So when she proposed relocating the company's headquarters to Crownford, he began handling the matter immediately.
Even knowing that her true purpose this time was to make Damien's life a living hell.
So what?
Damien owed her that much.
