Chapter 70
Arianne had never cared about her inheritance. Aside from sharing the blood with them, she didn’t have any attachment left. However, her recent summons from the Conway family proved that there were still things beyond her control.
After lunch, she was asked to stay by her Aunt Joyce and Uncle Yosef. Arianne initially wanted to decline, but when she was told a lawyer was already on his way to discuss her mother’s inheritance and properties, she agreed.
Joyce brought Arianne to a familiar room at the end of the corridor. The door opened inward with a muted click. Arianne stepped inside, her eyes sweeping around the walls and furniture, noticing the details. There hadn’t been many changes made during her long absence.
This room was Ysabella’s when she was young, before she married. The room’s decor was outdated, yet everything was clean and tidy. The curtains were drawn halfway, allowing filtered daylight to fall across the writing desk and the neatly arranged vanity. Arianne saw a portrait of her mother hanging on the wall opposite the bed. She stood before it and took in her mother’s warm smile.
For as long as she could remember, Arianne only saw her mother looking at her with conflicted and distraught eyes. Never loved. Never with affection.
“Have you been well, Aria?” Joyce asked from near the doorway. “Are you planning to stay for good now p>
Arianne nodded. However, she couldn’t just disclose that she was now married and raising her deceased friend’s children.
“I’m not planning to leave anytime soon,” she replied.
Joyce nodded, while Yosef remained near the bookshelf by the window. Arianne noticed the slight limp in his leg when he shifted his weight. It seemed he had never fully recovered from the accident years ago.
“I know that we failed you, Aria,” he started. “You must have resented us for not helping you back then p>
“No,” Arianne replied. “That was never the case, Uncle p>
Joyce glanced at Yosef, then turned fully toward Arianne.
“Your grandmother told us not to interfere. She said that you were the one who chose that man back then, and it’s your responsibility to see the end of it. We’ve waited for you to come back, though. We would welcome you with open arms if you’ve chosen to see us,” Yosef explained.
Arianne inclined her head and remained silent.
All of these were in the past. She had understood her position within the Conway family very well five years ago.
Five years ago, she had already stopped expecting intervention. By then, she understood that within the Conway family, dignity was measured by composure rather than protection.
If humiliation occurred without spectacle, it was considered survivable. If the scandal was avoided, the cost was acceptable.
Her mother had learned that lesson long before she did.
Arianne’s gaze shifted back to the portrait. Ysabella’s smile in the painting was open, almost carefree. It was difficult to reconcile that expression with the woman she remembered—careful with her words, restrained in public, distant in private. The version preserved on the wall belonged to a time before marriage, before compromise, before silence became routine.
“When she first returned here after marrying Gabriel,” Joyce said quietly from behind her, “she insisted she was happy p>
Yosef exhaled softly but did not interrupt.
“She visited less each year,” Joyce continued. “Your grandmother never said it directly, but she disapproved of how your father conducted himself. Still, a divorce would have damaged both families. So we maintained appearances p>
Arianne listened without visible reaction.
Maintained appearances.
The phrase fit neatly with what she already knew.
“As long as there was no public scandal, it was manageable,” Yosef added. “Your mother was advised to endure. We believed time would stabilize the situation p>
“And did it?” Arianne asked.
Joyce’s lips pressed together.
Arianne stepped closer to the portrait and looked at the frame. The varnish was intact, showing good care. Her mother’s memory had been preserved carefully, refined to look presentable.
“When I was younger,” Arianne said after a pause, “Mother avoided bringing me here p>
Joyce looked surprised. “She did p>
“Yes. She said the estate required discipline p>
The word lingered in the room between them.
It had not meant etiquette.
It had meant containment.
Arianne clearly remembered one visit when she was eleven years old. Her father had recently been seen with another woman, and rumors were spreading in their social circle. Ysabella had taken her to the estate unexpectedly, possibly looking for support.
They arrived late in the evening. Dinner was formal, even though it hadn’t been planned. The long dining table had already been set when they entered. Arianne had been told to stay calm, no matter what was said at the table.
During the meal, an older relative made a comment about “marital discretion.” The remark carried both advice and criticism. It was not directed at Ysabella specifically but presented as a general observation.
Ysabella had nodded and adjusted her napkin.
Arianne had spoken.
She had asked why discretion was only required of wives.
The table had gone silent.
Her grandmother’s gaze had settled on her without anger, only calculation. After a moment, Evelyn had remarked that children should focus on education rather than adult matters.
The conversation had resumed.
Later that night, in this very room, Ysabella stood by the window with her back turned, the curtains partially drawn beside her.
“You should not speak unless invited,” she said quietly.
“I was answering,” Arianne replied.
“You were challenging p>
There was no slap. No raised voice. Just that distinction.
Challenging.
Ysabella did not defend her publicly. She also did not scold her harshly. She simply explained the consequences of visible resistance in the Conway family.
“You will not always be free to speak your mind,” her mother said. “Choose your words carefully p>
At eleven, Arianne had not understood whether the warning was protection or restraint.
By thirteen, she understood it was both.
Joyce broke the silence in the present.
“Your mother thought that if she waited long enough, things would settle down,” she said. “She did not expect things to get worse p>
Arianne’s gaze lowered slightly.
“She knew it would happen,” she said calmly. “She hoped it would not come to light p>
Yosef’s posture stiffened faintly at that.
“After she passed away,” he started carefully, “your conflict with the Summers caused immediate effects. People worried that you would ruin your own reputation for good p>
“I wasn’t worried about my reputation,” Arianne replied.
“No,” Yosef agreed. “You were focused on making things right p>
The word hung in the room with a different weight this time.
Arianne didn’t destroy her father out of anger. She did it because the system had failed to take care of itself. While the adults chose to preserve their status, she chose to reveal the truth.
Her mother had endured.
Arianne had not.
The difference was about their generation, not their feelings.
Joyce approached her slowly. “Your mother loved you,” she said, her tone softer than before. “Even if she struggled to show it p>
Arianne did not turn.
“Is that so?” she replied.
She doubted that. Her parents had made it perfectly clear she wasn’t born out of love or to be loved.
The acknowledgement was straightforward and neutral.
She had learned that love did not always mean protection. Sometimes it meant instruction, even if the lessons weren’t perfect.
Footsteps echoed faintly from the corridor, signaling the arrival of the lawyer.
Arianne stepped back from the portrait to create space between herself and the image on the wall. The warmth that once existed between her and Ysabella had changed into expectation, disappointment, and restraint. Still, it affected her.
Her mother chose to endure.
Arianne chose to confront.
Both faced consequences.
When the lawyer entered with a briefcase, Arianne’s expression was already neutral again.
“Let us proceed,” she said calmly.
The past had been revisited.
Now it would be recorded.