Cecilia gritted her teeth, forcing the anger boiling in her chest back down. She refused to give Lucca the satisfaction. Turning on her heel, she strode away.
She had never cared for Lucca's petty provocations. Cecilia knew that stooping to Lucca's level—stooping to spite, mockery, and vulgarity—would only make her no better than her half-sister.
Since Lucca became the official Channing daughter, she had taken to mimicking Cecilia at every turn, throwing one taunt after another. Cecilia had never minded. To her, Lucca's arrogance was just a small-minded girl getting a taste of power. It stemmed from insecurity—the kind only a daughter of a second wife could have. Lucca would never be a "true" Channing lady.
But Lucca was persistent. She blocked Cecilia's path again, arms crossed, sneering coldly.
"Back when your mother divorced, she had all that pride—said Dad's money was dirty. Funny how now money suddenly seems like a good thing, huh?"
Before Cecilia could respond, Lucca went on, voice dripping with malice.
"Don't bother thinking about going to Dad. My mother's already whispered in his ear. Even if you begged him for money, he wouldn't give it to you."
"Why don't you beg me instead? Maybe I'll consider letting him help you."
Cecilia was usually patient and mild-mannered. But Lucca's arrogance, her mockery, pushed Cecilia past the edge. Now, with Renata gravely ill, Cecilia's patience had snapped.
"Lucca!"
She shouted sharply, a fury she had never shown before twisting her features.
Cecilia didn't know what she might do if Lucca continued. A slap across the face? Perhaps.
For years, Cecilia had chosen not to fight. She had tolerated Lucca and others thinking her soft, harmless, and easy to bully. But that wasn't who she really was. She saved her strongest moves for the right moment—the perfect moment to strike so that her enemies would never rise again. That's the kind of satisfaction Cecilia craved.
Even when Lucca had tampered with her drink years ago, ruining her reputation and taking away her innocence, Cecilia had not reacted.
Lucca may have thought Cecilia didn't know, or that she had no evidence. But someone had delivered the proof to Cecilia the very next day. She had chosen not to expose it.
At that time, everyone was already pointing fingers at her, whispering that she had lived recklessly. If Cecilia had shown the evidence then, no one would have believed her. They might have claimed she had framed Lucca to clear her own name.
So Cecilia had swallowed all the pain and humiliation, tears and all, and left for a distant land.
But the evidence remained safely in her hands, intact. Cecilia believed that one day, when she finally revealed it, it would be the day Lucca's reputation crumbled.
She had just shouted at Lucca, teeth bared, ready to do more, when a man stepped out from behind the flowerbed.
He was strikingly handsome. Dressed in a simple white shirt and black trousers, his frame tall and strong, he exuded effortless confidence. Not being in a formal setting, his sleeves were rolled up and the top few buttons of his shirt left undone. Every gesture radiated the aura of a mature man.
He smiled warmly at Lucca.
"Well, well… isn't this the second Miss Channing?"
Lucca's gaze snapped to him.
"You are…?"
The man deliberately emphasized second Miss, and Lucca felt an uncomfortable prickle. She hated being reminded that someone stood above her—Cecilia. But he was undeniably handsome and charismatic, and despite her irritation, she restrained herself.
His tone was calm, almost gentle.
"You don't need to care who I am. I just think… a lady like the second Miss Channing should watch her words a little more carefully."
His smile and soft tone only made him seem more composed. Lucca's heart skipped—this man radiated authority and charm. She tilted her head, smiling.
"What do you mean?" she asked, thinking he was just giving her advice for her own good.
The man's smile deepened, but his words turned sharp.
"I mean… maybe one day the Channing family goes bankrupt. With a useless personality like yours, second Miss, you might end up begging on the streets. Or maybe, when your mother falls seriously ill, you'll be in no better shape than she is now."
"You—"
Lucca's face went red, tears welling up.
In all her life, she had never been spoken to so harshly by any man. Cursed with her father's ruin, her own destitution, and her mother's illness—everything at once. No one had dared speak to her with such venom.
Even Cecilia had to admit—it felt almost satisfying. Every word the man spat out was exactly what she had wanted to say to Lucca but could not.
Her gaze lifted, meeting his.
His eyes landed on her, but there was nothing in them—neither warmth nor malice.
Perhaps having finished with Lucca, the gentle smile had vanished from his face. In its place was a quiet, unshakable coldness, radiating calm but undeniable authority.
Cecilia discreetly studied the man. She didn't recognize him and had no idea why he was targeting Lucca like this. Perhaps he simply couldn't stand Lucca's arrogance for a moment.
Meanwhile, Lucca had lost all control. She screamed at him, hysterical and red-faced.
"Who are you? I'm going to tell my father! You'll never set foot in Burg Eltz again!"
Cecilia had to admit—it was truly grotesque to see a woman so devoid of grace or composure. This was Lucca now, stripped of all elegance.
The man chuckled lightly, a sound dripping with mockery.
"Who says who won't be able to stand here?"
"Just you wait!"
Lucca, tears streaming down her cheeks, ran off in a furious huff, no longer bothering to act arrogantly in front of Cecilia.
After Lucca stormed off, the space was left with only Cecilia and the man. Cecilia didn't know what to say. Thanking him felt… awkward. He hadn't explicitly done it for her, after all. If she spoke first and he didn't acknowledge it, she'd look foolish, self-important even.
After a brief hesitation, she chose to turn and leave.
"Addicted to being bullied, are we?"
The man's mocking voice sliced through her thoughts. Cecilia turned sharply, eyes blazing at him.
She had to admit—his voice was deep, sensual, magnetic. But the words? Harsh, infuriating.
Just now, he had insulted Lucca ruthlessly, and now… now he accused her of being addicted to getting bullied?
He had only seen Lucca act arrogantly once and assumed she'd been "used to it."
And, she thought bitterly, she had been about to act. It was him who jumped in first. And now he had the nerve to say she was addicted to being bullied?
Even if she hadn't acted, that didn't mean she enjoyed being pushed around. Being bitten by a mad dog didn't mean you had to bite back like one yourself. That would make her no better than Lucca—a thought Cecilia found laughable.
Lucca's spoiled, unreasonable behavior was beneath her. That was why she had always ignored it. She didn't stoop.
The man stood casually, one hand in his pocket, watching her. Cecilia's restrained anger flared in her eyes, but his expression remained unreadable.
Before she could respond, a girl appeared at the entrance of the outpatient building. She clutched her chest and doubled over, dry-heaving. The man's brow furrowed immediately. He abandoned whatever conversation they were having and strode to the girl's side, supporting her gently and speaking in a soft, concerned tone.
Cecilia watched him, a flicker of irritation rising in her chest. So he has a wife. Pregnant, no less. And here he is, sticking up for some other woman. What's that about?
Thinking back to his earlier remark about her being "addicted to being bullied," her impression of him soured completely. She pivoted and strode toward the hospital wing, leaving him behind.
Cecilia didn't know the girl—Lilian. After her parents' divorce, she had lived an ordinary life and had no connections to the elite circles. She hadn't known about Lilian and Morrison's extravagant wedding a month ago in Burg Eltz; she had been on the other side of the ocean in Australia.
She didn't know Bert either, so she didn't realize he was Lilian's older brother.
Seeing him so worried over the girl, she naturally assumed they were lovers.
Cecilia also didn't know that Bert was the same man she had shared a chaotic, unforgettable night with. That night had been a blur; she hadn't seen clearly who he was. The only detail she remembered was a small, delicate tattoo on the tip of his right index finger. Everything else remained a haze.