Both Ian and the servant’s eyes dropped at once.

The tiny hand clutching Ian’s trouser leg was so small and delicate it seemed one could bruise it just by holding on too tightly.

“Do you know this child, Lord Wyndham?”

But the reply didn’t come from Ian, it came from the child herself.

“Papa…”

The servant, momentarily dumbfounded, tried to intervene.

“Little one, I think you must be mistaken—”

He hadn’t even finished when a woman came rushing toward them.

“Ayla!”

Her deep brown hair cascaded over her forehead in soft, rippling waves. She was—beyond words—beautiful.

The servant fell silent, unable to look away.

‘Beautiful…’

The thought came unbidden as he gawked, slack-jawed. Her eyes, a shade that seemed emerald one moment and sapphire the next, met his, and his breath caught.

‘Even her eyes are beautiful…’

He couldn’t tear his gaze away. It felt as if his very soul were being pulled in.

But the illusion shattered with that now-familiar word—

“Papa…”

‘Right. That’s what’s important here.’

He shook himself.

“Child, you’re mistaken—”

Before he could finish, Ian spoke.

“It’s been some time.”

The servant blinked. Ian was addressing the woman.

Then, crouching to meet the girl’s eyes, Ian asked gently.

“Do you remember me?”

The soft tone that slipped from Ian’s lips made even the servant blink in surprise.

‘They know each other?’

Ayla nodded timidly and murmured.

“I… Papa…”

Her voice was as light and fragile as a feather.

The servant tilted his head, puzzled.

‘Why does she keep calling him ‘Papa’…?’

And then, realization struck him like lightning.

‘Wait—could Lord Wyndham actually be her father?!’

Panic jolted through him as he scrambled to make sense of it.

‘No, that’s absurd.’

Then he noticed their clothes, black mourning garments.

‘Ah. Of course. They’re in mourning. That explains it. It can’t be what I’m thinking.’

Just then, Ian turned toward him, his expression composed.

“We’ll continue this conversation another time.”

“…Pardon?”

“As you can see, I have guests.”

‘Guests?’

The servant’s eyes darted to the mother and child. Guests—clearly, that was just an excuse to dismiss him.

Still, he couldn’t make a scene before another noble, especially not before a widow in mourning.

So he bowed stiffly and backed away.

“…Understood, my lord.”

Of course, that didn’t mean he planned to leave Shameron quietly.

‘If I go back empty-handed again, Lady Marianne will—ugh…!’

Nevertheless, he would choose Ian over the unpredictable Lady Marianne and the expressionless Lord Wyndham any day.

So, yes, he would be back. Proposal letter in hand.

Her thoughts wandered as she absently watched Ayla finish her bread and lift her cup with both hands to drink her milk.

“Until next time, my lord.”

✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦ ✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦❘༻༺❘✦ ✦❘

At a teahouse in the heart of Shameron, Estella sat across from Ian, her mind a tangled storm.

‘What exactly is going on here?’

She prided herself on her composure; there was little in the world that could truly unsettle her. Yet even she found the current situation unsettling.

Why had Ayla called a stranger ‘Papa’? And why, instead of correcting her, had that man responded as though it were nothing unusual, and then gone so far as to escort them to this refined teahouse?

‘I don’t recognize him.’

A man with looks that striking—sharp, refined, effortlessly commanding—wasn’t someone she could forget. Which meant only one thing: if they’d met, it must have been before she joined the Vansen household.

‘Best to hear him out first.’

The tea arrived. The man reached for his cup, the motion graceful, deliberate.

“I frequent this place,” he said with a pleasant smile. “It seems they’ve brought out my usual order without asking. I hope it suits your taste as well, madam.”

“I’ll enjoy it, thank you.”

Estella replied, lifting her cup to follow his lead. As she studied him from over the rim of her cup, her thoughts quietly churned.

Unlike Ayla, whose colors were all soft and warm, the man’s hair was a deep, pure black without a hint of brown.

‘He looks nothing like her.’

And where Ayla’s eyes were a clear shade of green, his were a cool, gray-blue, like tempered steel.

‘So they’re not related by blood. Perhaps a friend of Baron Vansen?’

Her mind kept running through possibilities, though none of it showed on her face.

“The aroma is lovely.”

She replied politely and took a sip.

However, just as she thought she would have to keep guessing, the man spared her the trouble.

“I attended Baron Vansen’s funeral not long ago.”

Her gaze, which had been fixed on his long, well-defined hands, lifted to his face.

‘So that’s it. He must have met Ayla there—and she remembered him.’

‘She’s a sharp child—she could’ve remembered him easily enough.’

Ayla had inherited her late father’s intellect, that much was certain.

“It seems, madam, that you don’t recall me.”

The man said gently. Estella set her cup down and shook her head.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember much from that day. I’m sorry.”

“I understand completely.”

His gaze drifted toward the child—Ayla—who had fallen asleep the moment they’d entered the teahouse, her head resting in Estella’s lap.

“I wasn’t personally acquainted with Baron Vansen, so I didn’t go far into the funeral hall. But I did meet your daughter briefly in the courtyard.”

At that, the pieces that hadn’t quite fit began to slide neatly into place.

When Ayla had mumbled Papa earlier, it hadn’t been out of confusion, it was her way of trying to greet him, to bridge recognition.

Like a child spotting a friend’s acquaintance and beginning, ‘Aren’t you… Stella’s—’ just to see the other person nod in understanding.

Feigning quiet reflection, Estella looked down at her stepdaughter’s sleeping face.

“She’s got a good memory.”

“So it seems.”

The man replied in a low, composed voice.

With that, Estella naturally turned her gaze toward the window.

‘Just a fleeting connection, then.’

He wasn’t a relative come to collect Ayla, nor was he an old friend of her late husband. There was nothing more to say.

So she didn’t ask any more questions.

Instead, she allowed herself to enjoy the moment, savoring the warmth of the tea and the gentle aroma lingering in the air.

‘The fragrance is wonderful.’

It had been such a long time since she had enjoyed a proper cup of tea.

Since her husband’s death, she had been running non-stop, like a horse driven hard by a whip. Tea time, leisure and peace no longer had a place in her life.

Perhaps that was why this small indulgence felt like such a luxury. For that alone, she felt faintly grateful to the man before her.

‘It really is good tea.’

As she quietly savored the calm between them, Estella raised her gaze again.

He had just put down his cup and slowly opened his half-closed eyes. When he sensed her looking at him, he met her gaze with his grey-blue eyes.

His expression seemed to ask if she had something to say.

Estella parted her red lips slightly and spoke. She felt faintly grateful to the man before her for that alone.

“I hope we haven’t disrupted your plans by imposing on your time.”

Come to think of it, the man before her had been speaking with another gentleman earlier, one who’d looked very much like a servant.

If that was the case, then she was holding up a man of status over a passing acquaintance.

“It’s quite all right. Our conversation had just about concluded.”

“I see.”

Her voice was light, almost casual. The man smiled faintly at that and set his teacup down without a sound.

“Do you have somewhere to go, madam?”

It wasn’t an unusual question.

During her mourning period, a widow travelling with a child, unable to participate in society or find employment, could only appear pitiful. It was reasonable to assume that she had been cut off from her late husband’s estate.

Estella didn’t bother with excuses. There was no point in dressing up the truth.

“Somewhere to go… well, I suppose not. At least, not here in Shameron.”

She set her cup down, her gaze flicking toward it as if to make her meaning clear.

“A place where even a simple cup of tea feels like a luxury—stay too long, and you’ll end up out on the street before you know it.”

It was a roundabout way of saying that the city was too expensive to live in.

The man gave a small nod to show he understood, but not enough to suggest sympathy.

That was fine. Estella hadn’t been looking for pity.

She remained quiet, sipping her tea slowly and savoring each mouthful as though stretching out the last moments of calm she could afford.

Then, unexpectedly, she heard a strange sound.

“If you’ve nowhere to go… I could invite you to stay at my estate.”

Estella’s brows furrowed slightly as her eyes remained fixed on the dark red tea swirling in her cup.