"What are you talking about? It's impossible." Desmond sat up in shock. How could it happen? Zaria could never be related to that woman.

"Yes, it is possible." Skeleton speculated. "Forget about the fact that she is mysterious with every turn. When she was a child, she lived in Luxenville with her parents and suddenly came to Imperium when she was eight.

Do you know where Lucy Roatta was during this time? She had also been in luxenville for years, and she left just a few months before Zaria and her dad did. My guess is that she is her mother, and they were trying to follow her."

"Stop." Desmond felt his head hurt when he remembered how mysterious Zaria's mother seemed from the few times she had talked about her.

"Lucy didn't have a daughter. Unless she lied about having a son." He remembered a snippet of his memory from his past.

….

More than two decades ago, when Desmond was a child.

The boy was playing with his friend, Liam.

"Young Master, Sir asked for you to go back." His nanny, a middle-aged woman, reported just as he was about to throw the ball back to Liam.

"I don't want to!" He shook his head annoyedly and continued playing.

The nanny was already used to taking care of this little tyrant, so he knew that pretending to be harsh didn't work on him. He paid more attention to his own benefit, so she leaned to his level to reason with him. "Young master, you are being disrespectful. Do you want to waste both of our time arguing? How about you go back first? You can save more time to play again later."

He contemplated the option and when he felt that the nanny made sense, he reluctantly gave the ball back to his friend and ran all the way to the house without giving the nanny a chance to catch up and clean him up.

He stormed into the living room panting, with mud all over his clothes and dirty hair sticking to his face.

"Where were you? Look at yourself. And where the hell are your manners? Don't you ever pay attention to your etiquette and manners classes?" Marchal scolded when he saw what had become of his son who had left the house looking like a prince just an hour ago. Was he rolling in the mud? "What an embarrassment. Don't storm into rooms like that next time!"

Little Desmond looked down, not because his father's words made him feel bad about himself—he was already used to his—but because there was someone else in the room. It was a woman who he guessed to be his father's friend, but it was still humiliating to be scolded in front of an outsider.

"Don't be too harsh with him, Marchal. Kids need to play." The woman spoke up, and her familiar voice made him look up to finally see her face. "Aunt Lucy!"

It turned out to be Lucy, his parents' close friend. He excitedly rushed up to her, forgetting all about his muddy clothes. She always gave him candy when she came over, which explained his excitement.

However, she suddenly blocked his hug. He looked down, deflated. Was it because he was too dirty? Did she also think that he lacked etiquette because he did not knock and announce his presence?

"Sorry. I'm…" She tried to pat his head in consolation, which he evaded and wondered why she looked sad about his reaction.

"Are you pregnant?" Marchal asked from the side.

She nodded. "Now you know why I can't join you and Alyssa on hikes anymore."

So it was because she was pregnant and was worried that he might hurt the baby by energetically clinging onto her like he always did. Did that mean Aunt Lucy didn't find him dirty?

He was still wondering whether he should apologize for being rude earlier when he heard his father laugh jovially and congratulate her.

"I hope it's a girl. Desmond will be in good hands in future." He hinted at her stomach teasingly.

In response, she burst into laughter. "I hate to be the one to announce the bummer. I already did a check a week ago and it's a boy. Unless your son turns out to be bent, you may have to find a wife for him later." She joked and endlessly teased Marchal and Desmond.

"Don't joke around." He didn't want to joke about such matters in the presence of Desmond, lest it came true.

"Desmond, come here." Lucy called him over, and he happily closed in. She picked him up and carefully placed him on her lap, then took out a handkerchief to wipe his face. "What kind of game were you playing? You even got mud on your cheeks."

She laughed and stuffed candy into his palms, making his eyes brighten.

"You seem to love him so much." She said to Marchal and he could feel her gaze on him.

"Of course I do. He is my beloved son, the pride of the Fort family." Marchal was indeed proud of his son. He even went ahead to flaunt about the achievements that Desmond had accomplished despite being so young. He was already a genius and would grow up to be much better, which filled him with joy.

"What about Jaime?" Lucy asked about Desmond's elder brother, who must be the family's treasure.

"I love him too…" Marchal's voice sounded strained, and it was evident who his favorite son was.

"I see. That works perfectly." Lucy's voice turned cold, and Desmond felt a violent tug in the next moment. "Little boy, I'm sorry."

"What are you! Lucy!" Marchal yelled in surprise and he stood from his chair. Before he could get to them, Desmond felt a cold sensation on his neck. From the sharpness that stung him slightly and his father's reaction, it had to be a knife.

"Marchal Fort, let's not waste each other's time. You know what I want." She declared so coldly that he would never have thought that it was truly the kind Aunt Lucy who always had smiles on her beautiful face.

Marchal was distressed, and he glanced at the telephone.

"Desmond, your dear dad wants you dead after all. I guess I should…"

"I will not touch the telephone!" Marchal promised and looked at her. "Lucy, please. Put the child down and we can talk."

"The time to talk is over. All I want now is the papers. Don't feign ignorance." She sneered.

"You could have asked nicely. Why are you getting my son in the mix?" Marchal pleaded, his voice still full of disbelief. "I thought we were friends."

She burst into laughter as she stood, as though she had heard the most ridiculous joke. "Friends? Why would there be friendship between a Roatta and a Fort? Did you hit your head and lose your memory? Give me the papers. Right now. Of course, if you prefer your son's body instead, I will give it to you in exchange for it."

"Lucy, calm down. Let's talk." He lowered his voice into a plea, afraid that Lucy might just slice his son's neck as soon as he stepped out to get the papers.

Marchal looked left and right and suddenly zeroed his gaze on Desmond. "Son, hit her in the stomach. Right now!"

…

Desmond shuddered as soon as he thought about the order that his father had given him in the past.

"What exactly is there between the Roattas and the Forts?" Skeleton asked in curiosity, having found nothing.

"I have no freaking idea. I still find it unbelievable that Lucy would suddenly attack me. I was too shocked and obviously, I didn't know what they were fighting about."

What papers were so important that Lucy would take him hostage for them, and his father was so reluctant to give them even when his son was a millimeter away from having the sharp blade of the knife sliced through his neck.

Skeleton didn't want to think of it either. From Desmond's description, she appeared to be a calm and cheerful woman. Who would think that she would turn into a psycho killer within a second?

"Did you hit her?" He asked with a start.

How could Marchal be so heartless?

Desmond frowned at such a question. "Are you kidding me? She had just announced that she was pregnant."

At the moment, he had freaked out when his father suggested hurting Lucy's baby. Although she was using his life to threaten Marchal, the baby did nothing wrong.

"She let me go as soon as my father said that. I don't think she was afraid that I could hurt her—it must be a mother's first instinct. She left and disappeared, and I was glad that I didn't hit her.

Besides, if I hit her and the baby she was carrying happened to be Zaria, I would have killed my future wife before she was born."