It had been three days since the shouting at the manor.
Three days since Ellis had been thrown to the ground, his cheek bruised, his silence unbreakable. And three days since the gates of the Lowell estate had remained closed to everyone, including Lucian and Rohan.
They had spent the days in tense quiet. Lucian would look out the window every so often, as though expecting a messenger, while Rohan would pretend to read, his eyes darting to the clock each hour. Finally, on the fourth morning, when the summer haze began to blur the edges of the town, Rohan stood and said, "We're going."
Lucian didn't ask where. He already knew.
The manor looked different that day. The last time they had walked up that gravel path, the place had been somber—muted, still, the air heavy with tension. But now there was movement everywhere: maids carrying folded linens, a cook shouting for fresh vegetables, and even a hired tailor measuring fabric at the veranda.
Rohan frowned. "This doesn't look like the aftermath of punishment," he muttered. "Looks like preparation."
Before they could reach the steps, an older servant barred their way. "The master said no visitors," he told them curtly. "Especially not now."
Rohan folded his arms. "Not now? He beat his son half to death and doesn't want visitors now?"
The man's eyes darted around nervously. "It's not my place to say, sir."
Lucian stepped forward, gentler. "Please… we only want to check on the second young master. He's ill."
But the housekeeper shook his head and turned away.
Then a soft voice came from behind a column—a young maid, the same one who had offered Rohan tea the week before. She glanced around and hurried closer, clutching a folded apron to her chest. "Please, you should go," she whispered. "The household is busy… the master is preparing for a marriage discussion."
Rohan blinked. "Marriage?" He let out a scoff. "What, the old man's found another poor woman to torture?"
The maid's eyes widened and she shook her head. "No, sir. It's for the second young master."
Lucian froze. The words fell heavy in the air.
Lance? My uncle?
He didn't say it aloud, but his heartbeat stumbled. His uncle—the quiet, somber man who never married, who'd lived alone in that cold house until his final days—married?
Rohan's brows drew together. "Lance?" he asked, voice sharp.
The maid nodded quickly, glancing back toward the hall. "Yes. The master has arranged a marriage between the young master and the daughter of the Jiang family."
Lucian felt the world tilt for a moment, as though he'd missed a step. The Jiang family. The name reverberated in his head like an echo from another lifetime.
Rohan whistled under his breath. "That's fast. Beat him one day, betroth him the next. I can't tell if the old man's trying to make up for something or bury it."
The maid paled. "Please, sir, don't speak like that. Someone might hear."
But Rohan wasn't listening. He was already studying Lucian, who stood motionless, eyes unfocused.
"Hey," Rohan said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"
Lucian blinked, trying to ground himself. "Jiang…" His throat felt dry. "That's my mother's surname."
Rohan's expression changed—surprise flickering into calculation. "Your mother's?"
Lucian nodded slowly. "Before she married my father, she was from the Jiang family. I never met her relatives. My father said she cut contact long before I was born."
Rohan leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You think it's the same Jiang family?"
"I don't know," Lucian whispered. "But what if it is? What if my mother's family was connected to this house—long before I existed?"
Before Rohan could reply, a sharp honk split the air.
Both of them turned toward the manor gates as a black sedan rolled up the drive. It gleamed like oil under the sun, modern and too expensive for most families in 1985. The servants straightened immediately, forming neat rows.
"That must be them," the maid murmured. "The Jiangs."
Lucian's breath hitched.
Two men stepped out first, dressed in light-gray suits. Then, a young woman in a pale blue dress emerged from the car, her parasol catching the light. She looked delicate, practiced—her smile soft, eyes unreadable.
The elder butler bowed deeply, ushering them in. The Jiangs disappeared into the hall, the sound of polite laughter fading behind closed doors.
Rohan exhaled. "Well, that confirms it. They're rich. And bold enough to step into a hornet's nest."
But Lucian barely heard him. His gaze lingered on the young woman's back. Jiang. The name pulsed through his mind again. His mother had once told him she grew up near the coast, from a family proud but old-fashioned. What if…
Rohan's hand tightened on his sleeve. "Don't spiral," he said gently. "Could be a coincidence. 'Jiang' isn't exactly rare, especially in the east."
Lucian swallowed hard. "Maybe. But if it's not?"
Rohan met his eyes, expression turning serious. "Then it means your family's story started tangling long before you were born."
The thought chilled Lucian more than he expected.
They stood in silence for a moment as the sedan door shut behind them. Somewhere inside, a servant announced tea.
Rohan sighed and glanced toward the sky. "Come on. We can't get in now anyway."
Lucian hesitated, still staring at the manor's grand facade. "Then what do we do?"
Rohan gave a crooked smile. "We investigate. Find out who this Jiang daughter is before she becomes Mrs. Lowell."
Lucian nodded slowly, forcing himself to breathe. "Right."
As they turned away, Lucian cast one last look at the gate. The afternoon light shimmered against the glass windows. He could almost imagine the echo of a piano drifting from inside, a tune half-forgotten but oddly familiar.
Rohan's voice broke the silence. "If history wants to repeat itself," he said lightly, though his tone carried weight, "we'll just have to ruin the script."
_______________
Inside the manor, behind the tall wooden doors, Lance lay awake on his bed. The bruises along his ribs had begun to fade, but his body ached with every breath. He heard the laughter from the sitting room below—the sound of teacups, his father's booming tone, and a stranger's softer voice responding.
He turned his head toward the window. The curtains swayed with the wind, the sunlight too bright.
He could make out faint words carried by the air: "Such a good match," "a fine young man," "two honorable families."
His fingers tightened on the bedsheet. His chest burned, not from the wounds, but from something else—something raw and wordless.
Through the open door, a servant whispered, "The Jiangs have arrived."
Lance shut his eyes. A low, bitter laugh escaped his lips, swallowed quickly by the silence.
"Marriage," he murmured. "So that's how he makes amends."
The laughter downstairs continued, bright and empty.
And somewhere beyond the garden walls, two boys walked away from the manor—unaware that the first thread of the tragedy had already begun to weave itself tight.