IWAPUF 23

What could Grandfather have possibly seen in him to entrust him with the business? *His business
sense?* Indeed, the brand Luiaasha was innovative. His strategy of precisely understanding
women’s psychology and inciting their vanity was remarkable. Was that the talent Grandfather
saw in him? I leaned back on the sofa and studied him carefully. Still, he looked more like a
knight than a merchant. His long, single-lidded eyes and tightly pressed lips made him look quite
stern.
“You look a lot like the Count,” he said.
“…”
His sudden remark caught me off guard, and instead of answering, I frowned. Seeing my reaction,
He offered an awkward smile.
“I noticed it when we first met,” he added.
*First time? Is he talking about when Grandfather passed away?* I felt uneasy under his gaze. Our
current meeting was far from pleasant, even if we tried to be civil. I didn’t care for how he
unconditionally shielded the child, and he likely didn’t look kindly on me for speaking so harshly
to a young one without hesitation.
*But what is with that look in his eyes now?* His gaze held a deep trust, and I couldn’t make
sense of why he was looking at me that way.
“That’s quite sudden,” I said.
“It might seem that way to you, my lady,” he replied, nodding as if to acknowledge my point.
I felt uneasy in this moment. His kindness, offered without any clear reason, made me
uncomfortable.
“The way you treated Lai—didn’t you do that on purpose?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied.
“As you know, my lady, Lai is half-Inayari. A child’s mistake could easily put the business at risk.
Weren’t you trying to warn us about that? Both the child and I?”
“Knowing that, you still let such an unruly child run free without any supervision?” I countered.
“I won’t make excuses for that. It’s entirely my negligence,” he admitted, bowing his head to me
once more. His impeccable posture, unwavering and straight, was unmistakably that of a knight.
“Indeed, my impression was right. You greatly resemble the Count, my lady,” he said, lifting his
head.
“The Count used to reprimand us sternly, too,” he continued.
*Is he seeing Grandfather through me?* I began to understand to whom the trust in his eyes was
meant. He was looking at me, but seeing Grandfather. I should have felt offended, but I didn’t.
Perhaps it was because he reminded me of Grandfather, or maybe it was those grayish-blue eyes
of his, gently wavering with some unspoken emotion.
“I’m an orphan,” he said, unable to meet my gaze and lowering his eyes. His long eyelashes cast a
deep shadow over them.
“It was your grandfather, Count Pison, who saved me when I was barely surviving, fighting for
my life day after day.” He looked up, meeting my eyes at last. Those grayish-blue eyes, which had
been trembling faintly moments before, now steadied and fixed firmly on me. He spoke on, his
tone calm and measured.
“Without his grace, I wouldn’t be alive today.”
I listened to him quietly.
“It’s not just me. He saved many children from desperate situations—including that child from
earlier.”
“Even knowing that child’s identity?” I asked.
“Yes. The Count knew everything,” he replied.
I tapped my fingers on my knee, lost in thought. Why had Grandfather taken such a risk to accept
that child? And it wasn’t just that child—Evan, sitting right in front of me, had also been saved by
Grandfather. His intentions were hard to fathom.
“Why?” I asked.
“He said it was atonement,” Evan answered.
“For whom?”
Evan’s gaze rested solely on me. In his grayish-blue eyes, my reflection shone clear and unbroken.
*Ah!* I found the answer in that look. Grandfather had spent his life atoning to me and the
Marchioness by secretly saving abandoned children—a quiet mission that stretched across the
years, unwavering from then to now.
“How many such children are there?” I asked.
“There are many,” he replied.
“I suppose they all work for the business,” I said.
“Most of them do,” he confirmed.
That’s when I understood why Grandfather had entrusted the business to Evan. He needed
someone to share the secret, to safeguard it. And Evan, it seemed, was the right person for that.
*Grandfather.*
I knew the reason now, but questions lingered. Was Evan truly the owner of the business? The
more I spoke with him, the more that doubt swelled. He struck me as reliable, trustworthy even,
yet he didn’t feel like the master of the business. No matter how I looked at it, he didn’t seem like
the one who had created Luiaasha.
*Is there someone else who made Luiaasha? If so, who could it be?* One question spiraled into
another. I paused, weighing which to ask next. As I fell silent, Evan followed suit, holding his
peace.
*Knock, knock.*
A sharp rap at the door broke the quiet between us. Evan glanced at me. I nodded to him. He rose
from his seat and walked toward the door. From the sofa, I watched as he opened it.
The door swung wide, and there stood an unexpected figure.
“Anasha.”
Her sudden appearance startled me. Why was she here when she ought to have been at the count’s
residence?
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Anasha,” I said.
Anasha Hess Pison—Grandfather’s wife and El’s mother—stood before me. She approached with
graceful steps and settled into the seat across from me. Evan trailed behind her, taking his place at
her back in quiet attendance. Seeing them like this, a wave of emptiness swept through me,
leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
*So that’s how it is.*
It was only when she appeared before me that I finally understood who the true owner of the
business was. The unmistakable femininity that permeated the decor of this reception room,
coupled with the shrewd business strategy that pinpointed women’s vanity with uncanny precision,
felt beyond the reach of a man like Evan Li.
Anasha, a woman who had risen from commoner roots to claim the title of Countess Pison, stood
as a testament to resilience. The world of nobility might glitter on the surface, but beneath its
polished veneer lay a cesspool of backbiting and betrayal—a realm where a commoner could
scarcely step without stumbling. Yet Anasha had not only endured this aristocratic crucible; she
had carved out her place as the Countess with unyielding resolve. Having weathered a storm of
criticism and envy in that role, she likely understood the hearts of noblewomen better than anyone.
Above all, the name *Luiaasha* struck me as so glaringly obvious that I felt like a fool for not
seeing it sooner.
“*Lui*” was the tender nickname she used for my grandfather, Count Pison. “*Asha*” was the
affectionate name he called her in return. The realization was so stark it almost made me laugh at
its absurdity.
“Oh, come now, how am I supposed to interpret this?” I muttered, sinking deeper into the sofa,
crossing my arms, and fixing her with a hard stare. Anasha responded with an awkward smile.
“Please don’t misunderstand, Beonne,” she said softly.
“What exactly am I misunderstanding?” I shot back, my tone sharp. A flicker of sorrow passed
through her eyes. Even when I first met her, I’d sensed it—this indefinable quality she possessed,
something that stirred a protective instinct in those around her. Most men, I imagined, would fall
helplessly under the spell of her charm.
*Am I, too, one of those ensnared by her allure?*
Anasha’s love for my grandfather seemed genuine. For more than four years, she had remained
steadfastly by his side, tending to him without faltering. The way she gazed at him was suffused
with warmth, brimming with an affection that felt almost tangible.
*Has she been deceiving me all this time? Or is there something more I don’t yet understand?*
I turned the thought over slowly in my mind.
She set a box she’d been holding onto the table and slid it toward me. It wasn’t small—about two
handspans wide. I glanced down at it.
“These are things he left behind,” she said. “I thought it would be more fitting for you to have
them than me…”
A shadow of deep sadness crossed her face, perhaps stirred by memories of Count Pison. Was this
an act, or was it real? My mind churned with uncertainty.
Wordlessly, I lifted the lid. Inside the intricately carved wooden box lay an assortment of delicate
feminine items—hair ties, trinkets, small accessories. I raised my eyes from the contents and
looked at Anasha.
The relentless cascade of events made my head throb. I loathed these tangled human relationships.
I stopped trying to dissect her words or guess her intentions.
*Even if she deceived me and my grandfather, what does it matter?*
Count Pison had passed away peacefully, wrapped in her profound devotion. Whatever her true
motives, she had fulfilled her duty admirably. And if she had misled me, I hadn’t lost anything of
consequence.
Wealth? Status? I had never once considered those things mine. I wasn’t greedy enough to covet
What didn’t truly belong to me.
Perhaps unsettled by my silence, Anasha spoke again.
“These are… things your mother, Shiona, used when she was a child.”
I glanced back at the items in the box. They were indeed the sort of things a young girl might
cherish. I picked up a yellow hair tie; its color faded with age. The other pieces were similarly
worn, marked by time and use, unfit for anything but memory.
“These are of no use to me,” I said flatly.
“You still don’t acknowledge Shiona as your mother?” she asked.
“That’s none of your concern,” I replied, my voice firm. Anasha bit her lower lip. It wasn’t that I
refused to acknowledge the Marchioness Eliont as my mother. Since the moment I became aware
of myself, I had never once thought of her as such. The distinction mattered.
To say I didn’t acknowledge her would suggest I secretly recognized her as my mother and
rejected her. That wasn’t the case. From the beginning, I had viewed her as a separate entity—a
stranger, nothing more.
Personally, I found the Marchioness Eliont to be a pitiable woman. But that was the extent of it. I
felt neither sadness for her struggles nor anger at her indifference. She was merely someone whose
face I knew—no more, no less.
Anasha hesitated, her lips trembling as though wrestling with a decision. Then, as if stealing
herself, she parted them, red from biting.
“I dislike you, Beonne.”
A faint laugh escaped me. She clenched her fists as if delivering some grand confession. I
responded with indifference.
“And?”
My casual retort seemed to catch her off guard; her eyes widened in surprise.
I sank further into the sofa. Suddenly, everything felt exhausting. I just wanted to go home, wash
away the day, and collapse into bed. Perhaps irked by my apathy, Anasha slammed her hand on the
table and raised her voice.
“You could have everything if you just wanted it, so why do you wear that detached expression?!”
Tears glistened in her eyes. Why was she behaving this way toward me? Shouldn’t I be the one
upset, the one shouting? Yet here she was, crying out as if she were the wounded party.
“So, what is it you want to say, Anasha?”
“I… I…”