They picked me up.

THINGS HAVE CHANGED!

I’m ALONE NOW...

A few years after my adoptive father, Alexander, DIED in 2023, I was stuck in London with my aunt’s family. Waiting. Counting down.

Eighteen. Freedom. Escape.

Just so I could take my father’s last gift and abandon this life. This wretched, excruciating life.

HELL.

Life has been unbearable… but maybe—just maybe—things will change.

Maybe I’ll heal…. Move on. Let the past die…

But—I’m excited!

After three years... I’ll finally see Uncle John and Sinjin again!

February 19^th

^{At the M&J Attorney office located in downtown London...}

Rain lashed against the trembling windows, while the wind howled fiercely outside in the raging storm. Crows pecked at the glass, their red eyes glinting from the skeletal branches as they curiously peered into the office. The sky had darkened further. I sat in the lawyer's office, surrounded by a stark black-and-white aesthetic, its sharp contrasts exuding an air of precision and finality. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock! The grand clock chimed in a distorted rhythm, amplifying the tense atmosphere. My pale fingers trembled as I clutched my black dress, a thin veil shrouding my swollen, reddened eyes.

Five minutes passed in a suffocating silence, so heavy I could nearly taste it. I met Mr. Nickleson’s gaze as he exhaled a weary sigh. “Mr. Nickleson…” I managed to croak. He studied me intently, shifting in his seat as he loosened his black tie. “Young Miss Valentine!” he boomed in the spacious office, stroking his thinning grey hair.

“It’s nearly two in the afternoon, and they still haven’t shown up?” I asked, my voice quivering. Mr. Nickleson’s brows knitted together as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and removed his black glasses. He let out a deep sigh. “I trust you informed your aunt and cousin about this appointment. Nonetheless, given the worsening conditions—especially after what happened two years ago—I made sure to send six voicemails.”

Crash! The door slammed open, shaking the frame. Lady May strode in, heels clicking with sharp precision. Her red silk dress clung like armour, bold against the room’s monochrome. She brushed a non-existent wrinkle from her sleeve, fingers moving with slow, practised ease.

Sir Mark followed, coat stiff, gloves creaking as he flexed his fingers. His gaze flicked past me—too fast, too fleeting. His lip twitched, a slight shake of his wrist as though dismissing something unpleasant.

Lady May adjusted her bag. “She’s wearing the veil.”

Sir Mark exhaled through his nose, tugging his cuff. “Obviously.”

Lady May sighed, smoothing her dress. “We’ll have to sit through the formalities, then.”

Sir Mark leaned back, resting an elbow on the armrest. “Waste of time.”

I swallowed, hands curling against the fabric of my dress. The veil pressed against my shoulders, heavy, suffocating.

Lady May tapped her nails against the armrest—steady, patient. “Let’s not drag this out.”

Sir Mark’s jaw tightened. He gave the barest nod.

They were here. And yet, the distance between us had never felt wider.

Mr. Nickleson adjusted his glasses. His blue eyes scrutinised the two. Clearing his throat, he remarked, “Honestly, I thought you came earlier than expected. I believed this would take at least five years to complete. That is, if I were lucky. 2.30 pm, wow, a new personal record! “He smirked with a slight nod. Lady Mays' smile disappeared. Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile and said with a syrupy sweet voice, “John Nickleson, don’t be like that, you know we have a special connection” She leaned in. Her red acrylic nails tapped the mahogany desk. I glance at Mark—his face cold, lips pressed into a thin line, veins pulsing against his throat. He exhales slowly. Controlled. Calculating.

Then his hand moves beneath the table, fingers pressing into my thigh. Firm. Measured. Commanding.

"Mother." A clipped rebuke. His thumb presses in once before withdrawing. "You are a duchess. A woman of title, of supposed refinement. Not some common-blooded indulgence, peddling herself like cheap wares in a merchant’s stall."

A brief flick of his gaze—assessing, dismissive. The faintest curl of his lip. Then, with slow certainty, he turns away. Lady May froze and sat back in her seat. Quietly, subtly glancing at Mark, cold sweat dripping down her cheeks.

Tick! The office clock chimed. Mr. Nickleson cleared his throat again and finally announced, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Silence…

 “Mr Alexander Riki (力) Valentine, your grandfather left an inheritance” He rustled through some documents in his drawer. Mark lifted a brow.

“As expected of the old man. To leave an inheritance for his beloved grandson,” Mark remarked. Rubbing his hands. May glanced at Mark, and a malicious glint appeared in her eyes. “So, father-in-law left   an inheritance?” May asked.

“Mr. Alexander indeed left a substantial inheritance, even for his adopted daughter Vionelle…” He glanced at me, his hands shifting as he pulled out three copies of my father's will. Mark and May snatched the documents, sly grins spreading across their faces. “Mr. Alexander left all his assets, including his company and workshop, to Mr. Mark and Lady May. Fifty-one per cent of the shares were given to Mark, with the workshop going to Lady May. And as for you, Miss Vionelle Valentine…” He adjusted his glasses and took out a small sports bag. “This is what he left for you!”

 A heavy knot formed in my stomach. Clutching my dress, I looked out the window. Crows were pecking at the panes, while the sky hung heavy and grey as the storm continued. Skeletal branches scraped against the window. Mr. Nickleson's face remained expressionless as he pointed to a section of the document and asked us to sign. Minutes passed as I carefully examined the document I had just signed. Aunt May stood up, her hands hovering over the document as she turned to leave, smirking. “Vionelle is so naïve that she doesn’t even realise when she has lost. But what can you expect from the bastard daughter of that old geezer?”

Mark followed, expressionless as left with a back-handed comment, didn’t we tell the old man an orphan, a bastard child like you found in that forsaken place! Just know you have been expelled from the family registry!”

The office was a collection of **black and white**—shadows pooling in the corners, muted light bleeding through sheer curtains, the faint smell of ink and old paper settling like dust between the silence.

Everything had weight. The **dark wood desk**, the **iron-rimmed bookshelves**, the silver watch ticking away time on John's wrist—all anchors in a space that refused warmth.

I sat across from him, wrapped in mourning black, the veil casting lacework shadows over my gloved fingers. The tea in front of me **sighed**, steam curling into the air like something slipping between worlds.

**Tap, tap, tap. ** 

Crows pecked against the window, their glossy feathers shifting, restless. Outside, the storm pressed against the glass, a heavy thing, a presence waiting to be acknowledged.

John poured the tea—**hiss, hush**—the quiet sound almost swallowed by the room’s stillness. “Vionelle, coffee or tea?” 

His voice cut through the emptiness like a gavel. Deliberate, certain, **final**.

I curled my fingers slightly. “Kuromamecha.” 

**Clack. ** The tin opened, revealing roasted black soybeans nestled like forgotten relics. **Plip, plip, plip. ** They tumbled into the waiting mug, punctuated by the hush of ceramic.

I adjusted the veil **by habit**, fingers brushing against the sheer fabric. The window flickered with movement—branches clawing against the glass, rain streaking its surface like ink spilt across cold steel.

The door **sighed open**, slow, deliberate, followed by a **low chuckle**.

“Oh dear. Still clinging to your tragic Japanese leaf water, **Little Widow**?” 

John didn’t react, but I caught the subtle twitch of his lips.

I exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around porcelain.

**Sinjin. Always Sinjin. ** 

He moved without hesitation, without apology—a figure cut from sharp lines and easy arrogance. His blazer—black, fitted, **undone just enough to appear effortless**—hung from his frame like the storm lingered against the city skyline.

He stopped beside my chair, lingering. **Too close. Too aware. ** 

I could **feel** him before I saw him—the heat from his frame, the faint scent of bergamot and worn leather, the weight of something **unspoken** pressing between us.

“If you wanted something warm,” he murmured, **voice dipping**, **low, velvet-soft**, **“you could’ve just asked me instead.” ** 

The room tightened.

The veil concealed the twitch of my mouth, the sharp inhale I caught before it could betray me.

John cleared his throat, **sharp, pointed, amused**.

Sinjin smirked, unmoving.

I tilted my chin just enough for him to catch **the glint of my narrowed eyes beneath the veil**.

“If I needed warmth,” I said smoothly, **controlled, deliberate**, “I’d throw you into the fireplace.” 

Sinjin chuckled, **low, knowing**. “Would you sit by it and watch me burn?” 

I exhaled. “Only if I get to roast marshmallows.” 

John **thud—** set a cup down in front of me. “Stop flirting in my office.” 

Sinjin straightened, **pleased with himself, zero shame**. “Flirting? Father, how *accusatory* of you.” 

John sipped his tea, **unimpressed**. “You’re standing too close.” 

Sinjin sighed, dramatically adjusting his blazer. “I wasn’t aware proximity equated to romantic intent—should I start standing on the opposite side of the room?” 

John shrugged. “It could help. Or —" he took another sip, glancing at me — "you could just go ahead and marry her. You're already twenty-four and don’t have a girlfriend. At this rate, there’s no grandchild in sight. I don’t have much time left, you know!”

The porcelain **slipped** beneath my fingers, nearly tilting forward.

Sinjin paused. **One second. One single second. ** 

Then he **smirked**—slow, insufferable, calculated.

“Well,” he murmured, shifting closer, **deliberate now, careful**, “that’s certainly one way to warm her up, isn’t it?” 

John exhaled, amused. “You’re predictable.” 

I set my cup down with a controlled **clink**. “You two enjoy *entertaining yourselves* at my expense, don’t you?” 

John hummed. “Absolutely.” 

Sinjin grinned. “It’s a family pastime.” 

John leaned back, **watching, weighing, knowing too much**.

“You know,” he mused, almost **too casual**, “you already look the part.” 

I frowned. “What?” 

John gestured at the mourning dress—the **heavy black fabric, the veil casting lacework shadows over my face**.

He sipped his tea. “Daughter-in-law.” 

Everything **stilled**.

Sinjin let out a **low, amused hum**.

“Now there’s an idea.” 

I **stood up**.

John **laughed** into his cup.

Sinjin caught my wrist—**warm, light, barely a hold**—just enough to make me **pause**.

The veil concealed the sharp inhale, but I knew he noticed.

“…Let go,” I murmured.

He tilted his head. “Are you asking, or telling?” 

The storm outside **sighed** against the glass, its breath curling into the silence between us.

John watched, **too entertained, too aware, waiting for one of us to admit what we wouldn’t say out loud**.

I pulled away.

Sinjin, let me go.

For now.

Flashback—Five Years Ago, Springtime

The garden smelled of fresh bread, warmed by the sun's golden touch. Beneath the wisteria tree, petals **twirled** in the breeze, settling onto the table like whispered secrets.

I held a basket of warm rolls in my lap, **thrumming with excitement**. “I made these myself!” 

Alexander leaned back, sceptical. “And they’re edible?” 

Sinjin smirked, folding his arms, **insufferable, easy**. “Let’s be honest, **Biscuit Cheeks**, you’ve got those round little cheeks—but does that mean you can actually bake?” 

I scowled. “Don’t *call* me that!” 

Sinjin sighed, shaking his head. “But it suits you—small, soft, tragically adorable, *utterly* in love with sweets.” His gaze flicked downward, **assessing, lingering**, **just long enough to be noticed**. “And judging by those thighs, I’d say you don’t skimp on portion sizes either.” 

My chopsticks **snapped in half**. “YOU—” 

John intervened—**smack! **—another well-placed hit to Sinjin’s head.

Sinjin winced, rubbing the spot, grumbling, “Oi! Assault is illegal, *Dad*.” 

John tore off a piece of bread. “You’re lucky it’s only assault. Keep talking, and I’ll upgrade it.” 

Florentina chuckled, **amused, knowing**. “I think Vionelle’s bread is lovely.” 

Sinjin sighed, biting into a roll—**crunch**—pausing before leaning back. “…Fine. *Biscuit Cheeks* can bake.” 

I folded my arms. “You’re. Not. forgiven.” 

Sinjin smirked, flicking his eyes toward me, **slow, unreadable**. “Then I suppose I’ll keep testing until you *do* forgive me.” 

John glanced between us. **Too knowing. Too amused. ** 

“You two should just get married.” 

The breath **stilled in my throat**.

Sinjin blinked.

Then **grinned**.

“Well. That’s an idea.” 

The laughter had faded, leaving only the hum of dim lighting and the quiet weight of the past that faded….