The day after the funeral, the household waited in quiet anticipation, hoping—praying—that Pierre would finally come to meet his newborns. But as the hours stretched on, their hopes withered. He never came.

Instead, he opened a bottle of wine and drank until the world blurred. Then another. And another. Until sleep claimed him in a drunken stupor.

Ivonne found Gabriel in the hallway, her hands twisting the hem of her apron, her face pale with worry. “He hasn’t come to see them,” she said, her voice trembling. “The babies—they need him. He can’t just… ignore them.” 

Gabriel leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He glanced at her, his dark eyes flickering with something that might have been indifference, though his tone was carefully measured. “He’s grieving,” he said, his voice low. “Give him some days.” 

Ivonne’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Days? Gabriel, the babies need their father now.” 

Gabriel exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the closed door of Pierre’s chambers. “He’ll come around,” he said, though the words felt hollow even to him. “He just needs to… process everything.” At this point Gabriel was just guessing more than assuring.

Ivonne shook her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Gabriel simply stood there as Ivonne left, his expression unreadable, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of calm detachment.

The second day, the same thing happened.

The maids gathered outside Pierre’s door, their voices hushed but urgent as they pleaded with him to come out, to see his children. Gabriel stood a few steps behind them, his arms crossed, his expression impassive.

“Monsieur, please,” one of the maids said, her voice trembling. “Your children need you. They’re crying for you.” 

The door flew open, and Pierre stood there, his golden hair disheveled, his face pale and gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath reeking of alcohol as he clutched a half-empty bottle of vodka in one hand. “Leave me alone!” he shouted, his voice hoarse and raw. “All of you—just leave me alone!” 

The maids flinched, stepping back as Pierre slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the hallway. Gabriel remained where he was, his expression unreadable, though a faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

For an entire week, Pierre drowned himself in alcohol and sleep, shutting out the world beyond his chambers. The once-vibrant lord of the manor had become a hollow specter, haunting his own home. Days bled into nights, nights into an endless haze of wine, silence, and the suffocating weight of grief.

The cries of the babies became a constant backdrop in the household, echoing through the hallways. But their father never came to console them.

He never once visited his children.

At first, the servants spoke in whispers, exchanging glances as they worked, their concern growing with each passing day.

“He hasn’t left his room in days,” one maid murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“He’s drowning himself in wine,” another replied, her tone heavy with worry. “What if he never comes out? What if he…” 

Her voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

“He’ll come around,” a third maid said, though her voice lacked conviction. “He has to. For the babies.” 

But reality settled in quickly.

Pierre wasn’t just mourning—he was running.

The sight of his newborns was too much to bear. They were living, breathing remnants of what he had lost—a cruel, relentless reminder that Nicolette was gone forever. Looking at them meant facing the undeniable truth: she wasn’t coming back.

And Pierre was not ready to face that.

So, he stayed away.

Thankfully, the maids stepped in where their master had failed. Despite their grief, they poured their love and care into the twins, treating them as their own. It was Ivonne who found the solution, enlisting the help of Cécile—a young maid who had recently given birth herself. With her own baby nestled safely in the servants’ quarters, she nursed Pierre’s nameless children alongside her own, ensuring they never went hungry. The only baby Pierre had named was Paul. So that his name could be carved into stone alongside Nicolette’s.

While the maids took on the roles of both mother and father, Gabriel was left with the miserable task of ensuring Pierre didn’t drink himself to death.

And he hated it.

Pierre’s suffering should have been a delight. Something to savor. And although at the beginning it was, really hit latter on.

Gabriel had dreamed of this moment. For years, he had envisioned Pierre Dupont breaking beneath the weight of despair, of watching the golden light in his eyes dim into nothingness.

And yet—this was wrong.

Pierre wasn’t falling apart because of him.

That fact alone ruined everything.

It was Nicolette’s death—not Gabriel—that had reduced Pierre to this pitiful state. And that fact bothered Gabriel.

Pierre’s grief, his pathetic isolation, his reliance on alcohol—none of it had been Gabriel’s doing. The revenge he had so carefully crafted, the suffering he had longed to etch into Pierre’s soul, had were stolen from him by fate itself.

And now?

Instead of reveling in Pierre’s misery, he was forced to drag him out of bed, pry wine bottles from his shaking hands, and force food past his lips before he wasted away entirely.

It was infuriating, and Pierre didn’t make it easy.

One evening, Gabriel entered Pierre’s chambers to find him sprawled on the bed, a bottle of wine clutched in his hand. His golden hair was a tangled mess, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused.

“Get out,” Pierre slurred, his voice thick with alcohol. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.” 

Gabriel ignored him, stepping closer. “You need to eat,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “And bathe. You’re a mess.” 

Pierre let out a bitter laugh, his grip tightening on the bottle. “What does it matter? She’s gone. Everything’s gone.” 

Gabriel reached for the bottle, but Pierre jerked it away, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. “Leave me alone!” he shouted, his voice cracking.

Gabriel’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by drowning in wine,” he said, his voice cold.

Pierre’s eyes narrowed, and with a sudden burst of drunken anger, he hurled a pillow at Gabriel. Gabriel caught it effortlessly, his expression unchanging as he tossed it aside.

“Enough,” Gabriel said, his voice sharp as he stepped forward and yanked the bottle from Pierre’s hand.

Pierre tried to resist, but he was too drunk to put up much of a fight. He slumped forward, his body heavy and uncoordinated, before collapsing back onto the bed. His breathing grew shallow, his eyes fluttering shut as he passed out in the middle of the struggle.

Gabriel stood over him, his expression unreadable as he set the bottle aside. He stared at Pierre for a long moment, his jaw clenched, before turning and leaving the room.

Most days, Pierre barely spoke, responding to Gabriel’s efforts with nothing more than empty stares or a bitter chuckle. Other times, he lashed out, hurling drunken slurs that Gabriel found more pitiful than insulting. And when neither silence nor anger served him, Pierre simply collapsed, curling into himself like a man who no longer wished to exist.

Gabriel ground his teeth.

This was not the suffering Pierre Dupont deserved.

Gabriel needed Pierre whole. He needed him strong. He needed him to be able to stand before him, trusting, unaware, before Gabriel finally tore him apart.

Pierre couldn’t remain like this. If Pierre were to suffer, truly suffer, it had to be by Gabriel’s hand.

So Gabriel stayed.

He forced Pierre to eat, yanked him out of bed every morning, took away every last bottle of wine from his reach. It was an infuriating, tedious process, but Gabriel endured it with quiet patience.

Because this?

This was just the beginning.

Pierre wasn’t suffering yet.

But soon, he would.

And when the time came—Gabriel would be the reason why.