As Claude sat in the grand palace garden, the air was as still as his expression, face carved with that familiar, detached composure. The elaborate rows of roses and pristine white lilies behind him were in full bloom, filling the air with a pleasant scent he barely noticed—though he knew his daughter enjoyed it. She was perched on his lap, small and quiet, and in her hands was the porcelain dish of pudding, glistening softly in the gentle afternoon light.

He raised a silver spoon, each motion precise and unhurried, as if the act were as mechanical as signing one of the endless documents in his office. His eyes remained cold, though he caught the faint flicker of joy on her face whenever he offered her a bite. He continued feeding her with a steady hand, spoon after spoon. If anyone saw them now, they might assume he was the picture of a dedicated father. But, inwardly, he felt a pang of irritation, a tension curling under his calm exterior.

The girl’s existence still stung—a living reminder of the cost of her mother’s choice, of Diana’s absence. He’d once considered obliterating all trace of his emotions to avoid such aching losses. And yet, despite his spell, here she was, pulling on the few shreds that remained of his humanity. Part of him felt the faintest trace of warmth as he fed her, almost a ghost of fondness. But another part seethed, craving order, desiring to end the disruption she brought into his well-maintained solitude.

He allowed none of it to show, though. His expression remained blank, his gaze focused but indifferent as he raised the spoon once more. He knew she looked up at him with an innocence he could barely comprehend; yet he met her gaze with cold, unfeeling eyes.