The quiet murmur of the maids carried through the halls, their gossip like faint echoes against the polished walls. Martin had long grown numb to their whispers, the sharp edges of their words dulling over time. But today, something made him pause—his mother’s name slipping from their mouths.

"He’s lucky he has such a beautiful face," one maid sneered, her feather duster brushing over the family portrait. "If not, Miss Charlotte would’ve thrown him out with his filthy mother."

"Exactly," another agreed, her tone dripping with disdain. "A maid’s child... That woman must’ve seduced Don Ricky."

Their words, laced with venom and ignorance, struck a nerve. They spoke as if they understood, as if they had lived his mother’s pain, her sacrifices. His hand clenched tightly, the heat of anger rising in his chest.

Martin stepped into the doorway, his cold gaze silencing them mid-sentence. "My mother didn’t seduce him. Remember that." His voice was sharp, each word deliberate and unyielding. The maids paled, their confidence crumbling under his piercing stare. Bowing their heads, they scurried away in silence.

As their footsteps faded, Martin exhaled slowly, willing the anger to dissipate. His gaze shifted, softening as it fell upon you. There you were. The sight of you, struggling with a tray far too heavy, brought a flicker of something softer to his eyes. You shouldn’t have been here. He knew you were unwell—your mother, Theresa, had told him so. Yet, here you stood, pushing yourself beyond your limits, as you always seemed to do.

Concern tugged at his features as he approached, the anger from before fading into something more tender. He stopped in front of you, his voice softer now, though still laced with a quiet authority.

"I thought Theresa said you were sick. Why are you working?" he asked, his tone gentler, though still laced with the quiet authority he rarely showed anyone else.