There was nothing left to hide.
The identity of the man who had boldly stormed into the Lambert estate, startled Ron and Mary to the point of panic, and—above all—called Vivian his daughter.
It was, of course, Jean de Lambert.
“B-Bibi… who is that? T-that’s your dad, right?”
“I don’t have a dad…”
At his daughter’s denial, Jean looked as though the sky had collapsed on him. He bent forward and took a step closer, only for Vivian to recoil in fear.
And just like that, Jean’s entire world shattered.
But none of this was Vivian’s fault.
“Our dad doesn’t look l-like that…”
The man standing before her was nothing like the father she remembered.
Jean had once been, without exaggeration—the most beautiful man in the village, or rather the estate, or even the entire country. That was according to his wife, at least, but no one had ever strongly disagreed.
Soft brown hair like melted spring sunlight. Eyes as clear as a blue sky. A straight, refined nose, lips slightly upturned at the corners, and a sharply defined jawline free of excess flesh. His expression had always been gentle, as if spring itself had taken residence in his face.
Jealous men might have called him delicate or weak-looking, but women—and even some men—could only admire him, as he inspired an almost instinctive urge to protect.
He looked like a prince straight out of a fairy tale, so much so that even Vivian imagining him as one made perfect sense.
But the man standing before her now was something entirely different.
A thick, unkempt beard covered most of his lower face. His hair was tangled and filthy, as though he had not slept in days and had run himself ragged to get here. His eyes were bloodshot, veins clearly visible from exhaustion.
And his once-slender, elegant body—honed and lean—had become broad and muscular, like a man who could wrestle a wild boar with one hand.
Rather than a fairy-tale prince, he now resembled a bear that had wandered out of a storybook to attack the princess.
No wonder Vivian didn’t recognize him.
“Waaah…”
Looking up at him from her small height only made him seem even more imposing. The sudden appearance of this stranger claiming to be her father was too much for her to process, and she burst into tears.
“Oh no, Bibi, my princess. There, there… Daddy’s changed a lot, hasn’t he? I ran all the way here to see you, you know? I crossed seas and climbed mountains just to see you.”
Jean flustered as he tried to soothe her.
Despite her fear, Vivian leaned into him the moment he reached out. The warmth she had clearly been missing melted something inside him, like being stabbed through the heart.
“Eyes, look at my eyes. Yes, just like yours. Who in this world has eyes the same color as Bibi’s?”
“…Dad…”
His voice hadn’t changed. That alone was enough for Vivian to slowly calm down in his arms.
Sniffling, she blinked away her tears and looked up at him again.
At first, his bloodshot whites made her flinch.
Then she saw the sky-blue irises identical to her own, and her frightened eyes widened.
And finally, when she saw the overflowing affection within them directed entirely at her, her tears surged again.
“…Dad?”
“Yes! Bibi, it’s Daddy. Daddy! Do you recognize me now?”
“Abbaaa…”
With a cry that sounded like “Daddy,” Vivian collapsed into his embrace as if all her strength had given out.
She thought she had no more tears left—but she was wrong. She sobbed so hard she soaked Jean’s rain-drenched cloak all over again.
“Yes, Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here…”
Jean pressed his lips tightly together, wrapping his large hand around her small back. He could feel the fragile bones beneath her clothes, so thin it broke him all over again.
And that grief turned immediately into anger as his eyes locked onto Ron, who was still staring blankly as though he had seen a ghost.
“Ron Dozier.”
“L-Lord… I-I thought you were dead…”
“And if I had died, would that mean you were allowed to abuse my child?”
Ron staggered backward. It was said that a kind man’s anger was the most frightening—but this was beyond that.
This man had likely never killed anyone in his life, yet the air around him felt murderous, as though he had taken countless lives.
“A-abuse? N-no, of course not! We never hit Vivian, and we—”
His words came out weak and desperate.
That, of course, was because while they may not have hit her, they had done everything else—locked her in an attic, starved her, and forced her into endless labor.
Ron stumbled again and placed a hand on the dining table. Papers fluttered down.
“Ah, th-this is—!”
An engagement contract bearing the names Vivian and Peter.
Stained with dried tear marks.
No one needed to ask whose tears they were.
“Eek!”
Jean’s mud-covered boot stepped directly onto the document. Soaked with water and dirt, it was instantly ruined beyond recognition.
With one arm still holding Vivian and the other gently patting her back, his face—hidden from the child’s view—looked as though he wanted to tear Ron apart on the spot.
“Waaaah!”
Peter, still in Mary’s arms, burst into tears upon seeing that expression.
“H-hey, be quiet!”
Mary quickly turned away and covered her child’s mouth, afraid he might be harmed.
Her desperate maternal instinct only fueled Jean’s rage further.
Parents who cherished their children.
People who had known Vivian since birth.
And yet they had starved her, abused her, taken everything from her—then even tried to force her into marriage with their son.
Jean ground his teeth.
A future that had not yet come flashed through his mind.
If Vivian were not in his arms right now—if she were not clinging to him as though she would never let go—
Ron would not have left this place alive.
But if he became a murderer, he would no longer be able to stay by Vivian’s side.
He had to endure it.
A grinding sound escaped his throat.
“You people…”
His low voice was followed by growing noise in the distance.
Hooves striking the ground. Armor clashing. The sound of heavy footsteps entering through the open gate.
With every approaching sound, Ron and Mary grew paler.
“You will never see the sky without iron bars again.”
A group of men appeared.
They were members of the local guard—the self-formed militia of a small village too poor to maintain a formal garrison. It was the village where Jean and Vivian lived, a place so small it relied entirely on volunteers.
“W-what is this?!”
“How did the guards get here?!”
“Ron Dozier, Mary Dozier! You are under arrest for child abuse, embezzlement, and insult against nobility!”
“W-wait, arrest?!”
The excuse that there was no evidence never made it past their throats.
But how did the guards know?
And how did Jean know?
He had just seen Vivian’s suffering—when had he even had time to report it?
“Is that your son?”
“H-he did nothing wrong!”
Mary panicked as the guards reached for Peter, still confused in her arms.
One of the guards clicked his tongue.
“Tch. Don’t worry—we won’t imprison a child. But he can’t stay here. Until your judgment is decided, we’ll take him in.”
“No! Mommy! Mommy!”
In an instant, the guards took Ron, Mary, and Peter away.
Only Jean and Vivian remained in the ruined Lambert estate.
Vivian had already cried herself to sleep at some point. Even in sleep, she clutched Jean’s clothes tightly, as if afraid of letting go again.
Jean gently stroked her cheek, careful not to wake her—like she might disappear if touched too roughly.
