[Young Residence]
Lawrence found solace in Jasmine’s positivity and encouragement, just as he had always found peace in every situation with her by his side. Yet a part of him remained inconsolable—a part he could feel but could not explain.
Idling in his study in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, Lawrence sipped a glass of rum, letting the quiet embrace him. Just him and his drink, an audience for his swirling thoughts.
He swallowed a mouthful and reached for the book on his desk. Opening it at a bookmarked page, he revealed a photo of him and Loren.
"Loren," he murmured, leaning back as he held the photo before him.
The photo was old, but clear enough to show Loren grinning with a chicken in her hand. Squatting beside her, his arm draped across her shoulder, was the young Lawrence, wearing only his inner formal shirt beneath his suspenders. Their hair flowed back with the wind, but that small detail only displayed what looked like a happy marriage.
A young, wealthy couple, enjoying themselves on a farm.
His eyes softened with a mix of longing and bitterness, perhaps even lingering anger.
"You got what you wanted in the end." His thumb pressed on the photo’s edge until it creased. "Like you had always had — damn you, Loren Albert."
Lawrence clenched his jaw and tossed the photo onto the desk. He chugged the rum without hesitation, hissing in satisfaction, then glared at the photo—the same photo he had always tried to tear or throw away, but had never succeeded.
He despised her, yet no matter how much he hated her, he always found himself holding on to her. Even years after her death, it was still a dilemma he had never gotten rid of.
Another heavy breath escaped him as he poured another glass, trying to wash away the unpleasant feelings in his chest. After all, admit it or deny it, hate or not, Jasmine was right:
At one point, Loren and Lawrence had been deeply in love.
They had been lovers in what sounded like a fairytale—where a princess fell in love with a commoner—and despite all odds, their love had seemed invincible. At least, that was what he believed for a time; he believed there was nothing they couldn’t overcome together.
But she lied.
Loren had lied, hurt him, and betrayed him. He may have made the mistake of getting drunk, unaware of what he was doing, and waking up next to a former lover he had long forgotten. It was a mistake, an honest one, which he had confessed to and planned to take responsibility for.
He thought she had forgiven him, but she hadn’t. Otherwise, Lola—Loren’s living punishment for him—wouldn’t exist.
"Damn you, Loren," he whispered, chugging another mouthful. "Your daughter is just like you."
He kept drinking until he was wasted. It had been a long time since he let himself drown in all the baggage he had silently carried. Deep down, in the very core of his heart, he still yearned for the woman who had shattered him.
Before he knew it, he could no longer make it to the bedroom and collapsed on the couch.
"Haha..." he laughed to himself. "Haha... damn it."
As he laughed, the alcohol clouding his mind, the door creaked open. Jasmine peeked inside, finding her husband sprawled on the couch.
She sighed. "I knew he was drinking here."
She knew him too well; waking in the middle of the night, she immediately sensed he was struggling to sleep. She couldn’t blame him—Lawrence had been under immense stress since Lola returned to Novera.
Determined to help, Jasmine stepped in. "Hon—"
"This wouldn’t have happened..." he mumbled in his drunken stupor, still on the couch. Jasmine froze mid-step. "... if you... didn’t go to that reunion."
Her eyes widened as she watched her husband laugh in ridicule, intoxicated yet lost in his own memories.
He laughed with his eyes closed, floating in the haze of alcohol. "Damn you... Lawrence Young."
Jasmine’s hands balled into tight fists, her eyes cold. The familiar swears, once a relic of his drunken nights, had resurfaced. It had been years since she’d heard from them—not because he had moved on with her and Melissa by his side, but because he had stopped drinking.
Bitterness swirled in her chest as she turned on her heel, leaving him to sleep on the couch. But something caught her eye—something on his desk.
She approached it cautiously and saw a photo of Loren and Lawrence.
"You—" Her heart pounded. Her shoulders trembled, her face reddened with fury.
Hadn’t he thrown everything away? All the pictures, all the memories? She had seen him do it before Loren’s death. How could it be back here? How had he hidden it all these years?
Her jaw tightened, her fist trembling.
Even after all these years... don’t tell me, he still loved her?
Her anger, however, quickly shifted into worry. Grabbing the photo, she crumpled it tightly in her hand.
I’ve come this far... I can’t let her ghost ruin everything.
Her eyes shone with resolve as she glared at Lawrence, then marched out of the study, the crumpled photo in hand. She headed straight for the backyard, where the head maid had set up a small bonfire.
Standing a few steps from the thin flames, Jasmine tossed the photo into the fire. She watched it burn, but it did little to ease her anger, annoyance, and fear.
"Loren Albert," she whispered, her eyes sharp. "Everything you had—your title, your status, your husband, your wealth — is already mine. You’re dead... so stay dead."
She crossed her arms, eyes fixed on the flames. "I worked hard so my daughter and I would have a place in this world. I won’t let anyone ruin it for me—not you, not your unlucky daughter... who will never taste her father’s love—ever."
A short chuckle escaped her lips, her smirk sharpening. Lawrence would never know what she had done, and what else she could do to protect the life she had always dreamed of.
"I’ve succeeded many times in the past. I’m not going to fall now."