The library doors closed softly behind Lethea.
The scent of aged paper, polished wood, and faint tobacco wrapped around her like a memory. Nothing had changed. The La Roche family library remained exactly as it had for decades—floor-to-ceiling shelves heavy with leather-bound volumes and ledgers that recorded generations of power, blood, and ambition.
At the centre of the room stood a massive mahogany desk.
And beyond it, by the tall French windows overlooking the estate, stood her grandfather.
Thomas La Roche.
His hands were clasped behind his back, posture straight despite the years weighing upon his shoulders. Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting long shadows across the floor and catching in the silver strands of his hair.
For a moment, Lethea couldn't move.
Her vision blurred violently as the present fractured—
A coffin.Cold wood.A body that would never turn around again.
Her knees weakened.
I watched you die, she thought, her throat tightening painfully. And I never said I was sorry.
She swallowed hard and forced herself forward.
Each step toward him felt like wading through something thick and suffocating.
"Good morning, Grandpa," she said quietly. "I'm sorry for keeping you waiting."
The words were ordinary.
But the way she spoke them—soft, careful, stripped of arrogance—made Thomas stiffen.
He turned.
And froze.
Lethea bowed deeply.
Not shallow.Not perfunctory.
A genuine bow—her head lowered, shoulders drawn inward, as though she were standing before someone she had wronged beyond redemption.
Thomas stared.
His granddaughter had never bowed to him.
Not once in her life.
Lethea Sy La Roche had always stood tall, chin lifted, eyes cold and defiant—even as a child. Even when punished. Even when she cried.
Especially when she cried.
Rumours painted her as ruthless, spoiled, vicious—but Thomas had always dismissed them. She was sharp, yes. Stubborn. Proud.
But she was his.
His weakness.
Now, the girl before him felt unfamiliar.
Not broken.
Controlled.
Burdened.
"Thea," he said finally, his voice stern but cautious, "raise your head."
She obeyed slowly.
Her eyes were red.
Not from sleeplessness.
From grief.
"We need to discuss your behaviour yesterday."
Thea's fingers twitched at her sides.
Her birthday.
The shouting.The alcohol.The public humiliation.
In her previous life, she had laughed at the scandal—dismissed it as another inconvenience he would quietly erase for her.
Now, the memory burned like acid beneath her skin.
"I know," she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to remain composed. "I embarrassed the family."
Thomas sighed heavily.
"You rejected the engagement publicly. You insulted the Warton family. You caused chaos in front of investors who already question your stability."
Each word struck true.
"I paid them off," he continued quietly. "Confiscated recordings. Smoothed things over."
She flinched.
"You shouldn't have had to," she whispered.
Thomas studied her closely.
"You've always acted as though consequences don't exist," he said. "And I allowed it."
Her heart clenched painfully.
"I failed you," he admitted, turning away. "Your father failed you. And I tried to compensate… too much."
"No."
The word tore out of her.
Thomas turned sharply.
Lethea took a step forward, her composure fracturing.
"Please don't say that," she begged. "Please."
Her lips trembled violently.
"Don't take responsibility for my sins."
Tears streamed down her cheeks, silent and relentless.
"I was greedy. I was cruel. I used everyone who loved me… including you."
Her breath hitched.
"In my past—" she stopped herself, fists clenched tightly. "Before… I never once thought about how you felt. I only thought about what I wanted."
Thomas felt something inside him give way.
He crossed the room in two long strides and guided her to the armchair beside the desk, his movements instinctive, protective.
"Sit," he murmured.
The moment she did, she broke.
Her shoulders shook violently as she covered her face, sobs tearing free despite her desperate effort to contain them.
"I watched you di—" she cried hoarsely, the words splintering apart before they could fully form. "And I deserved it…"
The rest dissolved into broken sounds—grief too heavy to be shaped into language.
The confession never reached him.
Her voice was too low, too fractured, swallowed by sobs and space.
Thomas did not hear what she said.
Only that she was drowning.
He felt it in the way her body folded inward, as though crushed by an invisible weight. He felt it in the tears soaking into his sleeve, in the raw anguish trembling through her frame.
And that alone shattered him.
Whatever guilt haunted her—whatever regrets had finally caught up to her—he assumed it was the weight of years of trouble.
The scandals.The recklessness.The messes he had always been the one to clean.
Too many to count.
Thomas sighed deeply and sat beside her, resting a trembling hand on her head, stroking her hair the way he had when she was small.
"Oh, my dear…" he whispered. "This grandfather of yours must be terrible, to make you carry so much inside."
He didn't ask what she meant.
He never did.
"I promised your mother," he continued softly, as if confessing his own sins, "that I would protect you. That I would give you everything she no longer could."
A bitter chuckle escaped him.
"But perhaps… I gave you too much," he admitted, "and too little at the same time."
Lethea shook her head frantically.
"No. You gave me love," she whispered. "I just didn't know how to accept it."
Her voice dropped further.
"I won't waste it again."
Thomas exhaled shakily.
"I'm not getting any younger," he said. "And one day, I won't be here to clean up after you."
Her chest tightened painfully.
"That's why I arranged this marriage," he continued. "Erickson Warton is not noble-born, but he is honourable. Disciplined. Strong."
Her fingers curled unconsciously.
"He will protect you when I cannot."
He already did, she thought.
In a cold hospital room.When no one else came.
"I understand," she said aloud. "And I accept the engagement."
Thomas stiffened.
"You… accept it?"
She looked up, her eyes steady despite the tears.
"Yes."
A small smile curved her lips—soft, dangerous, resolute.
"I'll listen to you from now on."
Relief flickered across Thomas's face—followed by unease.
"Your change frightens me," he admitted. "You were never this… obedient."
She laughed weakly.
"I've had time to think."
About death.About loneliness.About regret.
"General Warton will arrive tomorrow," Thomas said carefully. "Treat him with respect."
Her smile deepened.
"You don't need to worry, Grandpa."
Tomorrow would be perfect.
She stood slowly and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly.
Thomas gasped.
For a brief moment, it felt like she was eight again—small arms clinging desperately, afraid to be left behind.
She pulled away, smiling sweetly.
As she left the library, her expression shifted.
Warmth drained from her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would meet Erick again.
And this time—
She would never let go.