Chapter 71.1

Chapter 71.1

Suddenly, a childhood memory surfaced.

There had been a time when he’d gone with his nanny, Nonna, to the playground beside the Metropolitan Museum and brought back a new friend to the Lafayette Residence. The boy, giddy with excitement, tumbled down comically as the manual elevator jerked and swayed, and laughed uproariously. André, watching, laughed aloud too.

His mother, Grace, had welcomed the boy with a picture-perfect smile, her eyes cold and blue as ice. She treated him with kindness, but after the boy had left, she looked down at André with that same graceful chill in her eyes and gently shook her head.

[He’s not our kind, André.]

At first, he hadn’t understood what she meant.

But it didn’t take long to realize that the servants were even more exacting than Grace in classifying what “kind” of children he brought home. That boy had been treated very differently from Jared Hamilton—the one who often barged in unannounced, played like he owned the place, then left again.

No one had ever explicitly told him what kind of person qualified as “his kind.” But after seeing the pattern repeat enough times, the truth became painfully clear.

By Grace’s standards, Miran could die and be reborn a hundred times, and she still wouldn’t be one of “his kind.” And no one understood that better than André himself.

But Grace was no longer in this world.

From now on, he would decide who belonged in the Lafayette Residence. And no one would dare question that decision.

When they arrived at the penthouse, Ramon opened the manual door with a flourish and doffed his cap in an exaggerated, playful gesture. Miran let out a delighted laugh.

Thankfully, Ramon was one of the few who didn’t divide people by “kind.”

“Go ahead,” André said.

He stepped aside to let Miran exit first. Seunghyuk followed right after her. As André was the last to step out, he gave Ramon’s shoulder a light pat.

[Thanks, Ramon.]

Ramon’s mouth fell open. Behind him, the elevator doors closed more slowly than usual.

Higgins, who had come out to greet the master of the house, was met instead by the sight of an unfamiliar young Asian couple standing wide-eyed, glancing around the gallery. He eyed them up and down with a measuring gaze, already starting to size them up by Grace’s old standards—when André spoke first.

“Higgins, they’re my guests.”

His firm tone made Higgins’s mouth open slightly, then snap shut with a quiet click.

“Good evening, madam. Good evening, sir,”

he said, bowing politely. Dressed in what looked like a formal tailcoat, with snow-white hair neatly combed back, Higgins offered Miran and Seunghyuk a deep, impeccable greeting. Flustered, both quickly dipped their heads in return.

“Prepare dinner in the East Wing. For the entrée… filet mignon with asparagus. The wine—1982 Château de Lafayette Médoc, Grand Cru.”

“Yes, Mister Lafayette.”

“Where’s my father?”

A flicker of discomfort crossed Higgins’s face before he carefully replied.

“The Marquis departed for Paris last Wednesday. He said you were already aware of this, sir.”

André sighed. He’d suspected as much. For a Charles, he’d held out longer than expected—he probably needed a break.

“Did he say when he’d be back?”

“He mentioned returning by the end of the week.”

A flimsy excuse if there ever was one. His father had no intention of coming back anytime soon. He’d have to send Cedric after him.

“Understood. You can go.”

As André turned away, he caught Miran and Seunghyuk staring at him, their expressions somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“Is this… your place?”

Miran asked in a hushed whisper, though no one had said anything to warrant keeping her voice down.

“Yeah. This way.”

He gestured toward the corridor that led to the East Wing. As she followed him, Miran couldn’t help sneaking glances around the gallery.

“The people in the paintings on the wall… they kind of look like you,”
Miran said quietly.

André gave a short laugh. Of course they did—they were his ancestors.

“Yeah? I don’t see it.”

“Are you sure this is actually a house? Not, like, some kind of art museum?”

“It’s a house.”

She drew closer to him as she glanced around at the corridor walls lined with paintings, marble sculptures, and antique furniture.

“If I so much as trip here, it feels like I’d be in serious trouble…”

André swallowed hard. She was close enough that he could catch the sweet scent of her skin. All he wanted in that moment was to pull her into his arms. The last time he’d held her was last September—eight long months ago.

No photograph tucked into a wallet could compare to the vivid, living energy radiating from her presence. It hit every nerve in his body like a surge of electricity.

“Whew…”

He took a deep breath.