Callum walked over and sat beside his granddaughter. “Girl, what are you scribbling?”

Startled, Clarissa looked up and gave him a soft smile. “Just organizing rewards for the staff. Everyone’s got different responsibilities, so I want to acknowledge them fairly.”

Though democratic in nature, Clarissa knew she had to strike the right balance—encouragement with just enough pressure to keep her people sharp.

Callum’s stern features eased into satisfaction. “You’ve grown into the role well. That eases my mind. A woman needs her own career. Don’t end up like your mother—helpless, leaning on men. That’s useless. And as for that brat Atticus, don’t be fooled. Keep a grip on his wages. Even if things fall apart between you, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. My granddaughter will never suffer injustice. Understand?”

Warmth filled her chest. “I know, Grandpa. Don’t worry. Atticus won’t let me down.”

And indeed, she still controlled his paycheck.

Callum sighed, still uneasy. “Girl, Atticus… actually…”

His mouth twitched, as if he wanted to speak, but stopped himself.

Clarissa noticed the change in his expression and tilted her head. “Grandpa? What is it?”

He shook his head slowly. “Nothing. Just—be careful. That boy isn’t someone you can manage easily.”

It wasn’t Atticus’s talent that worried him. The boy’s skill was undeniable. No, it was something else. That face… it tugged at his memory, stirring unease.

Atticus was brilliant, yes. But was he right for Clarissa?

Clementine had chosen wrong, and the price had been high. Callum couldn’t shake the fear that history might repeat itself.

He studied his granddaughter a long moment, then let it go. Time would tell.

That evening, Clarissa and Callum discussed her departure.

Callum didn’t stand in her way. Though reluctant, he knew she had to leave eventually. Clarissa was strong-willed, far more independent than her mother. She would chart her own path.

The date was set: three days later.

But the night before their departure, Callum summoned Atticus into his study.

Few people had ever set foot inside. The door was always locked. Even Clarissa wasn’t permitted entry. Within, rows of shelves sagged beneath the weight of ancient medical texts, rare manuscripts lost to the outside world.

Callum’s sharp voice cut through the musty air. “You! Get over here.”

“Master, why so fierce?”

Atticus moved forward at a steady pace. Just as he reached the old man, Callum suddenly seized his wrist.

A cold gleam flashed in Atticus’s eyes, though his expression stayed carefully composed. “Master… what are you doing?”

He knew better than to resist. Any struggle now would only stoke suspicion. So he stood still as Callum pressed his fingers against his pulse.

The silence stretched until Callum finally released him with a grunt. “Hmph. You’ve been cautious. Careful with your life, aren’t you?”

Atticus lowered his eyes, voice smooth. “Master, you always said a doctor can’t grow complacent—that he must dare to experiment if he hopes to cure the incurable. I only learned that from you.”

“Bah! Spare me your act.” Callum spat the words, dropping back into his chair. His gaze hardened. “I won’t expose what you’re up to. But hear me well: if you so much as wrong Clarissa, I will destroy you. Don’t think I can’t.”

For the briefest moment, Atticus’s mask slipped—just enough to reveal the flicker in his eyes.

Truthfully, his strength now rivaled Phoenix’s. But Callum… Callum was different.

The old man’s depths were immeasurable. His cunning and power ran deeper than Atticus had ever grasped. He was perhaps the only person alive who still made him wary.

But Atticus’s lips curved in that lazy, dangerous smile. “Master, you can rest assured. As long as you agree to give Clarissa to me, I’ll treat her well. Better than anyone.”

If she belongs to me.

Callum rolled his eyes. “Dream on. It’s far too early for that. Your trials are just beginning. Boy, wait and see.”

Wait and see if I decide to kill you myself.

Later that night, Callum slept soundly beside him, but Atticus lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

For weeks now, he’d shared a room with the old man. Every attempt to sneak into Clarissa’s chamber had been intercepted, their nightly battles ending with his defeat.

Never mind. He was leaving tomorrow. Patience. Just one more night.

He rolled over, forcing himself to sleep. His breath evened out.

But across the room, Callum’s eyes suddenly opened. The corners of his mouth curled in a sly smile.

“Stinky brat,” he murmured.

.....

The next morning, Atticus and Clarissa packed their things, preparing to leave.

While Atticus busied himself with the luggage, Callum tugged Clarissa aside. His sharp eyes fell on her empty wrist. “Why aren’t you wearing the blood jade I gave you?”

Clarissa lowered her voice, almost guilty. “It’s too precious, Grandpa. I was afraid I’d scratch it.”

Callum’s glare hardened. “Nonsense. I made it for you. It’s been soaked in medicinal wine—it’ll strengthen your body and ward off toxins if you keep it close. You’ll wear it when you get home. No excuses.”

“Yes, Grandpa,” Clarissa murmured, nodding quickly.

But Callum wasn’t satisfied. “Say it properly. You will wear it. Do you hear me?”

Clarissa flinched at his insistence and nodded again. “I’ll put it on when I get back. I promise.”

Only then did Callum relent, grunting with approval. At that moment, Atticus strode over, luggage in hand. “Clarissa, everything’s ready. Time to go.”

Clarissa turned back toward Callum, her eyes damp with reluctance. “Grandpa, why don’t you come with us? I want to take care of you.”

The old man’s heart, so often like stone, softened instantly. His gaze grew misty, though he quickly covered it with a gruff shake of his head. “I’ve lived here nearly forty years. The city isn’t for me, and you’re busy enough already. You don’t need an old man slowing you down.”

“No matter how busy I am, I’ll always have time for you,” Clarissa whispered, biting her lip.

Callum reached out, stroking her head like he had when she was a child. His voice dropped, almost tender. “Be good. Go on back. If anything troubles you, if you’re unhappy, you tell me. No matter what it is, I’ll stand by you.”

That was enough to break her. Clarissa wept openly, clinging to him until her sobs subsided. Even once she climbed into the car, she kept glancing back, reluctant to leave.

Atticus noticed. She hadn’t looked his way even once. A shadow flickered in his eyes, but he smothered it. Instead, he reached over and gently enclosed her hand in his. “Clarissa, don’t be sad. If you can’t bear it, I’ll bring you back to see him at New Year. We’ll stay as long as you want.”

Clarissa wiped her face, exhaling shakily. She didn’t answer, but Atticus understood.

“You were hoping he might come live with us, weren’t you?”

She blinked at him, surprised. But of course, Atticus always read her too easily.

She hesitated, then sighed. “Grandpa’s long since put the world behind him. Dragging him into my ideas would only make him miserable. It’s better to let him be.”

She turned to him, steadier now. “Let’s go.”

Atticus gave her a long, searching look, his knuckles tightening on the wheel before he started the car.

Back home, the first thing Clarissa did was fetch the jewelry box. She lifted the lid, releasing a delicate, heady fragrance.

The blood jade gleamed inside, rich and alive, unlike any lifeless ornament she’d ever owned. Not even her entire jewelry collection combined could rival this. This piece had warmth, vitality—her grandfather’s craftsmanship woven into every line.

She slipped it over her wrist with careful fingers. The cool surface sent a shiver up her arm.

At dinner, Atticus’s sharp eyes caught it immediately. “You’re wearing that again?”

“Grandpa insisted,” Clarissa said lightly, raising her wrist. “He says it’s good for my health.”

Her lips curved with mischief. “Why? Interested in it too?”

Atticus’s mouth twitched, but his gaze lingered on her, dark and intent. “Nothing. It looks good on you. The red suits you.”

The simple words sent a tremor through her chest. Her heart skipped, warmth flooding her cheeks. She was just about to reply when the lock on the front door beeped and clicked open.

Both of them stiffened, exchanging a glance—but neither panicked. Only one other person’s fingerprints were registered here.

A moment later, the door swung wide, and someone stepped inside.

“Atticus!”

Phoenix stormed across the room the instant he appeared.

“You’ve got the nerve to sit here eating? The police station is buried in work, and you’re still lazing around. Move it!”

Clarissa blinked. “Atticus? What’s going on? Didn’t you say you had another day off?”

Atticus sighed, resigned. “At least let me finish breakfast with her, Master—”

“Finish your head! Do you think food’s going to vanish if you don’t eat it? You’ve already taken more leave than you deserve. This year—your vacation for the next three years is canceled. Get your ass back to work. Now!”

Atticus leaned toward Clarissa with a boyish pout. “Master’s being cruel. Clarissa, help me…”

“Don’t drag her into this,” Phoenix cut in sharply. “Clarissa, you can’t keep protecting him.”

Clarissa suppressed a laugh, though she shook her head helplessly. “Work hard. I’ll be home preparing materials anyway. We’ll have dinner later.”

Atticus opened his mouth, but Phoenix had already seized him by the collar and hauled him away.

Watching the two bicker their way out, Clarissa smiled faintly and turned back to her meal.

......

By early afternoon, she’d been in the study for hours, completely absorbed. Only when hunger clawed at her stomach did she glance at the clock, startled at how much time had flown.

She stretched, wandered into the kitchen, and frowned. The freezer held nothing but rows of ice cream. The cabinets, crammed with jars and bottles of medicinal herbs, looked more like an apothecary than a kitchen.

So that was how Atticus cooked—medicated meals, crafted from these endless ingredients. No wonder she never saw a packet of instant noodles or a single vegetarian dish.

Too lazy to start cooking from scratch, Clarissa ordered takeout and went back to work. But when her wireless mouse suddenly died, she sighed and decided to borrow one from Atticus’s room.

She pushed open his door. The air inside carried a faint, familiar scent of paint and herbs. His desk sat neat, a closed notebook on top, but no mouse in sight.

“Strange…” she muttered. She scanned the shelves, spotted a box on a high cabinet, and stretched to reach it. Her fingers brushed the corner, and with a sharp clatter, several books toppled down.

Clarissa cursed under her breath and bent quickly to gather them.

Then she froze.

The open album revealed a portrait. Her portrait.

It was her, captured on the sofa, the faint curve of her smile, the relaxed fall of her hair—rendered in strokes so vivid she almost felt her own gaze staring back at her.

Her heart skipped. She turned a page.