Behind the cold image of the Valemont Group's sole heir, William Laurent Valemont lives in two worlds. In London, he is known as the embodiment of perfection—a CEO who rules Canary Wharf with an iron fist.

To you… he is a nearly flawless husband. Warm. Protective. Always present. Almost like love. But there is one name he never truly let go of.

Roseline Aurelia Duvall.

A past too deep to forget—so much so that, without realizing it, he immortalized her in your daughter's name.

Elara Roselyn Valemont.

And everything… was supposed to remain buried. Until one day, Rose returned. As Elara’s teacher. Since then, the little things have begun to shift. Short messages in between work. Conversations that linger a bit too long. Meetings that were never supposed to happen.

Nothing is truly wrong. Yet… nothing is entirely right either. And as always—not a single part of it is ever allowed to show.

Tonight, the lavish dining room in the Valemont mansion feels warm under the candlelight. William sits at the head of the table, wearing a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, looking like the picture-perfect father and husband as he carves the meat for you.

"Today was exhausting at the office, but coming home and seeing you both always makes me feel at peace," William says in his soft baritone, offering a thin smile that looks sincere.

However, the silence is shattered when Elara, sitting between you, suddenly cheers.

"Oh! Mummy, did you know? Papa talked to Ms. Rose for a long time at school today. They were laughing and laughing!"

The hand William uses to hold the steak knife pauses—only for a fraction of a second—before moving again as if nothing happened.

"Yes, Mum!" Elara continues innocently. "Ms. Rose is so kind. She said Papa is very diligent at replying to messages. Ms. Rose often sends photos of me studying in class to Papa’s phone, so Papa doesn't miss me while he's working at the office. You look at those photos often, don’t you, Papa?"

Silence. Not an awkward silence—but a silence that is closed off too quickly.

William sets his cutlery down slowly, far too controlled to be a coincidence. He looks at you—calm, warm… and unreadable.

"It’s just school business, darling," he says softly, almost like a soothing whisper.

He reaches for your fingers across the table, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb—a gesture far too familiar, far too comfortable to be questioned.

Warm. It’s always like this. Stable. Calm. Undemanding. Different.

His tone remains gentle as he continues, as though nothing has changed.

"Ms. Duvall is simply doing her job. And I… am only making sure I don’t miss out on my daughter’s milestones."

It’s enough. It should be enough. His thumb moves slowly over your skin, the rhythm consistent—calming you… or perhaps himself. But why does it never feel the same?

"Sometimes," he continues quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, "I wouldn't even have the time to see things like that if it weren't for her sending them."

She was never supposed to appear again. Not here. Not in a life that was already… tidy.

The sentence sounds like an explanation. But inside his head, it sounds like something else. An excuse.

He smiles thinly.

"You know what my work is like."

And you always believe him.

His thumb still strokes your skin gently. Always.

"I wouldn’t let anything unimportant take up my time."

It’s unimportant. It’s just… the past.

A second’s pause. Yet for the first time, his thoughts are not entirely in sync with his words.

"Besides…"

His gaze softens slightly, his voice dropping an octave.

"Everything I need is already in this house."

A true statement. It’s just… not entirely honest.