"Continue then," Roman said softly. Julie, finally given permission, lowered her gaze, lips trembling, then opened her mouth. Her voice came out like a broken whisper, raw with emotion. "Always," she said, her voice quieter now, melting into his touch. Roman’s hand shot forward, gently but firmly pressing his palm against her lips. Azazel blinked. "What? was I? I don’t think so, I was looking for my phone." Azazel said not wanting Lisa to know who is Ava and what is going on. He nodded slowly, solemnly. "Yes. They’re gone." Donovan opened his arms. "What would be the fun in that?" She let out a bitter breath, her expression strained. "What if I search for answers and only end up more broken?" His room was a mess—drawers open, clothes tossed about like a hurricane had swept through. Lisa’s heart did that ridiculous flutter it always did, even after decades. Roman didn’t speak. He just stared at her. There, standing near the entrance, sunlight streaming through the large windows, was someone she hadn’t expected to see that morning. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she recounted everything—every sharp word, every silent meal, every moment she was made to feel like an outsider in her own home. Azazel beamed. "I missed you. I missed your stories. And your perfume! You always smell like... expensive books." Lisa gave him a look. "You buy expensive books and fall asleep reading the first page." Julie blinked, catching the shift. "Roman... your parents... are they—?" Her voice trailed off. His rage was not loud; it was silent and cold, the kind of rage that made your spine prickle. Lisa folded her arms. "It smells like breakfast. I saved you some." Outside his door, Lisa, who had been standing with her knuckles raised to knock, jumped back, startled by the sudden outburst. She blinked rapidly, her brows furrowed. But peace did not extend to every corner of the city. Birds chirped outside, faint and cheerful, as the couple lay tangled together in sleep—his arm draped over her waist, her hand resting lightly on his chest. "Avaaaa!" he shouted. "Well," she murmured, voice teasing, "the prodigal old lion returns." Donovan glanced at her with mock suspicion. "Your cooking or the maids?" Donovan smiled. "You want more?" His hold wasn’t possessive—it was protective, calming. His fists clenched, jaw rigid. His entire frame shook slightly, a tremor born of anger so deep it could shatter mountains. Azazel bolted forward and hugged him like he was ten years old again. "You look amazing! Are you taller?! Did you work out?!" Julie sniffled. "Roman, I don’t want to see anyone. Maybe once, I might have wanted to find out who my real parents were. But now... after everything... I don’t want to know. I don’t want to see even the real ones." She descended the final step, the wooden floor cool beneath her slippers. "And what brought you back, hmm? Missed me? Or just missed the fight?" Julie’s heart dropped. "I’m... I’m sorry," she murmured, her voice laced with guilt and pity. She lowered her gaze, ashamed she had compared her pain to his. The tears streamed down freely, painting her cheeks with grief as she tried to explain a childhood that was more survival than living. His eyes, usually so steady and composed, flickered for a moment—then softened into something unspoken, something heavy. He paused, his voice thick with a strange mix of pain and remembrance. "My parents never treated me badly." The grey in his beard had thickened since he left for their countryside property years ago, and his coat hung open to reveal a crisp navy shirt and his usual black gloves—untouched by time, just like the sharp glint in his silver-gray eyes. Her voice cracked with grief, thick with sorrow and disbelief, until the dam finally burst. Before she could look away completely, Roman reached out, hooking his index finger gently under her chin and lifting her face to meet his. "I missed the sound of your voice before you scold me." Lisa’s lips curved slowly into a smile, warm and real—the kind that bloomed not just from recognition but from something much deeper. Donovan laughed again, full and proud. "Because I read expensive books." Lisa chuckled softly. "Mm. There it is. Still smooth as ever." Outside the door, Lisa blinked again, caught between confusion and amusement. She took a small step back, still unsure what she had just witnessed. And just like that, in the warmth of each other’s embrace, they drifted back into a quiet sleep. Shaking her head, Lisa turned away and descended the stairs, her mind already returning to more pressing matters—Roman and Julie. Inside, Azazel glared at himself in the mirror. "Why can’t I just go over there and see her? What is wrong with you, Azazel? Are you a coward now?" "I’ve been pruning trees and chopping wood. Your grandmother put me to work." He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "You’re still the most beautiful thing in this house." Roman pulled the covers up around her shoulders, tucking her in with surprising gentleness. Her eyes widened with surprise, and then, slowly, her lips curved into a wide smile. "You were yelling about Ava," Lisa reminded. "Mine. I only let her stir." "It started when I was very young... I never knew why, but there was always this coldness in the way they looked at me, Roman. No warmth, no love. Just... judgment." He hadn’t changed—not in the way that mattered. He still stood like a man who carried legacy in his blood and quiet storms in his chest. Donovan placed a hand on Azazel’s head, ruffling the boy’s already-wild hair. "You’ve grown," he said. "And you still smell like toast and trouble." "Ava?" she murmured under her breath. "What kind of spell did that girl cast?" He had said he’d wait for her, not push. And yet, every part of him itched to break that rule. "Shhh," he whispered. His touch was warm, grounding her spiraling thoughts. Azazel’s mouth dropped open like a cartoon character. "You didn’t say you were coming!" "It’s okay," he said with a tender smile. "If you don’t want to see them or you’re afraid to... that’s okay. But believe me when I say—someone out there is probably dying every day for the daughter they lost." Roman sat in front of her, his body eerily still, but every breath he took seemed heavier, more thunderous than the last. The tension in the air was thick, pulsing. He laughed, a rich baritone that echoed through the hallway, and leaned down to plant another kiss, this time on her cheek. "Fair enough, my queen." He held her gaze. "Real parents—real ones—don’t treat their child the way Lewis and Cassandra treated you, Julie. I know that for certain." Her voice quivered, fear riding each syllable. "Think about it, Roman... If the ones who raised me, who called themselves my parents, could treat me this way... how much worse would the real ones be?" "Arghhh!" Azazel groaned loudly, raking a hand through his tousled black hair. His eyes were no longer warm—they were icy, a piercing glint like Everest’s cruel wind, capable of slicing skin with a mere glance. Ava’s face haunted him every time he closed his eyes. The way she laughed. The spark in her eyes. That unapologetic sass. He exhaled harshly, throwing his head back. The sleepless nights were catching up with him. He turned on his heel with renewed resolve. "I’ll be on my way." She paused at the last step, her hand still resting on the polished banister, eyes locked on the tall figure standing in the sun-splashed foyer. Lisa smirked. "Make me tea later and we’ll talk." Julie didn’t respond. She only looked at him, the storm in her eyes slowly calming under his steady reassurance. Azazel waved a hand. "Not important anymore. Grandpa is here! I don’t even remember what I was looking for five minutes ago!" "Lisa! Have you seen my phone? I swear—if Ava touched it—" Azazel skidded into view, still half-dressed, one shoelace dragging didn’t even realise that he call Ava’s name. His voice held a quiet confidence, a belief so deep it warmed the space between them. Suddenly, heavy footsteps tumbled down the stairs behind her. "Enough," he muttered, then smirked devilishly. "Why not?" He paced back and forth barefoot, frustration burning in his chest like fire. Lisa scoffed. "He’s exaggerating. He supervised while Julio did the pruning." Donovan turned around casually, as though he hadn’t just stolen Lisa’s breath thirty seconds ago. "Hello, hurricane." Julie looked up at him. "But Roman, you knew them. You lived with them for years. You were loved by them—and you still have that memory. But me? What if I go out there searching and all I find is more pain?" "I cook, I manage, and I rule over three generations of men... and all I get is ’beautiful’?" Morning came softly. The sunlight broke through the drawn curtains in pale streaks, casting a warm glow across the room. Azazel watched them bicker fondly. "You two are like a novel. No—like one of those slow-burn historical romances. Grandma Lisa is the general. Grandpa Donovan is the poet with hidden muscles." Donovan’s lips lifted into a grin. "You always said the house feels colder when I’m gone." Then, with one smooth movement, he lay beside her and drew her into his arms. He feigned offense. "Lies. Vicious lies." Donovan turned toward the hallway, slowly removing his gloves and setting them on the side table. "This house smells the same," he said. "Like lemon wood polish and legacy." Lisa rolled her eyes. "God help whoever you’re crushing on." But just as her foot hit the final step, she froze. He stepped forward, and in one simple movement, his hands found her waist, drawing her in. "Still mine?" Azazel trailed them into the corridor like a happy puppy. "Grandpa, I hope you’re staying a while. Roman’s been serious lately and has no time for me," Azazel the little grandson complain like a little boy.