IWAPUF 17

The moment I heard his name, I remembered.
Evan Li—Count Pison’s heir.
He had appeared suddenly, without warning, after the Count’s death. No one had seen it coming,
least of all the members of the Pison household. His origins were a mystery. No one knew his
homeland, his lineage, or even the names of his parents. Yet, despite fierce resistance from the
Pison family, he had inherited the Count’s title without incident.
And when he took over the Count’s merchant guild, it flourished—so much so that it was often
said that the Pison estate had entered a golden age.
I hadn’t paid much attention at the time, but I clearly remembered the noblewomen at the palace
balls flaunting their latest purchases from the Pison guild. Clothes, shoes, jewelry—luxuries aimed
squarely at women like them. Like me.
It had been a brilliant move on his part.
Women immersed in luxury spent without restraint.
And I had been no exception. Back then, I’d rivaled anyone in extravagance.
I’d never met the Count’s heir in person. All dealings had been handled through my nanny. I
merely told her what I wanted, and the rest simply… arrived. There was no need for me to see
him myself.
But seeing him now, I realized how far off my assumptions had been.
He didn’t match the image one might conjure for a merchant heir. He had none of the warm,
round-faced affability. He wasn’t broad-shouldered from indulgence, nor gentle in manner.
Tall, lean, and sharp-featured, he looked more like a knight than a businessman. His short,
silver-gray hair only added to the impression of a seasoned soldier.
“El!”
The girl in my arms stretched her hand out toward the air.
Without a hint of hesitation, Evan stepped forward and gently took her from me, as if it were
second nature. The way he lifted her, eye to eye—even though she was blind—suggested this
wasn’t the first time.
“El,” he said softly, “you snuck away from your nanny again, didn’t you?”
El said nothing, only wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.
She was notoriously shy, rarely opening up to anyone but a select few. Seeing her cling to Evan so
easily surprised me.
It meant he was one of those few.
“Evan,” El murmured, “I want to see Papa.”
He rubbed her back in slow, comforting strokes. “You miss your father, don’t you?”
She nodded against his shoulder.
“He misses you, too. Very much. But he’s feeling very sick right now. How about we wait just a
little bit longer?”
“When?”
“When you’ve had a good meal, a nice nap, and your pretty face is all fresh again.”
“I’m pretty right now!”
Her cheeks puffed in indignation, and Evan chuckled. His cool gray-blue eyes softened with
warmth as he rubbed his cheek against hers.
“Yes, our El is always beautiful.”
He adjusted his hold on her and looked at me and the Marquess, giving a small nod—an unspoken
cue. Go in now, while she’s distracted.
Surprisingly tender, for someone with such a piercing gaze.
As Evan carried El upstairs to her room, the Marquess and I stepped into the Count’s chamber.
Contrary to what I’d expected, the room was quiet—no crowd of nobles or bustling servants.
Only the Count and his wife.
The Countess gave me a faint smile. One that trembled, as though she were barely holding back
tears.
She bent toward her husband and whispered into his ear. Slowly, as if roused from sleep, the
Count’s eyes fluttered open.
He turned his head toward me. The movement looked excruciating.
With trembling fingers, he reached out.
His hand was so thin, it seemed the skin alone kept his bones from collapsing.
“Beonne…”
I froze.
“Go to him,” the Countess said gently.
I glanced between the Count’s outstretched hand and her pale face, still caught in that fragile,
grieving smile. She nodded.
I stepped forward and took his hand in mine.
It was warm. Dry. Fragile.
His sunken cheeks and liver-spotted skin were carved with the deep grooves of age. Death
lingered there, like a shadow cast long before the final curtain.
This wasn’t the first time I had watched someone slip away. I had lived too many lives, seen too
many endings. But no matter how many times it happened, this moment—this—never became
easier.
“Th… ank… you…”
Even speaking seemed to drain him.
I held his hand tighter between mine. The Count’s other hand reached up and rested over mine,
shaking as he did.
“Be… happy… my sweet… girl.”
His words came in broken syllables, barely more than whispers. But his touch—gentle, deliberate
—conveyed more than speech ever could.
My vision blurred.
Tears spilled over before I could stop them.
The Count patted the back of my hand with slow, labored movements. His eyes then turned,
searching behind me—toward the Marquess.
“Please…”
The final plea never left his lips.
His eyes fell shut.
The hand in mine went limp.
“…Grandfather?”
The Countess, who had stood a few steps back, rushed to his side. She shook his shoulder gently,
then harder.
“My love? Please. Wake up. Please…”
But he didn’t move.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
And then she collapsed, folding over his chest, weeping in silence. Her shoulders trembled with
every breath, as if the grief itself was hollowing her out.
I stood, unable to speak, unable to move.
Even offering comfort seemed beyond me.
I was too busy keeping myself upright.
He—Count Pison, my grandfather—had been the first person to see me not as Beonne, the noble
girl, but me. Truly me.
The warmth in his presence, the quiet strength in his love—it had broken down walls within me
that even I hadn’t known were there.
I had known this day would come. His health had been failing for years. He had already lived four
years longer than he was supposed to.
I had more than enough time to prepare.
But when the moment came, the world still cracked open.
My knees buckled. I braced for the cold floor—
—but strong arms caught me first.
“Are you alright?”
A low, resonant voice stirred by my ear.
The Marquess had caught me just in time, steadying me as he looked into my face, concern etched
across his own. In the reflection of his clear blue eyes, I saw myself—eyes red, cheeks wet, tears
slipping down without end.
He let out a soft sigh. I flinched involuntarily at the sound.
The reflex was frustratingly familiar.
That part of me—Beonne, the girl I had once been—still lived inside me, springing forth in
moments like this. The pain in my chest whenever I met the Crown Prince, the way my body
recoiled at the Marquess’s sighs or his disapproving gaze… My mind knew better, but my body
had been trained otherwise.
I hated it. And yet, I had no choice but to carry it all. I was Ijia, yes—but I was also Beonne. I
couldn’t tear one half from the other. I had to accept every piece of me.
The Marquess must have noticed my reaction, because his grip on my arm tightened slightly.
There was a flicker of something—something tender—beneath his stoic gaze. And then, before I
could gather myself, he pulled me into his arms.
His embrace was wide and solid—nothing like young Lant’s awkward, endearing hugs. This one
was sure and unshakable.
“I’ll hold you,” he murmured, “until your tears are done.”
And for a long while… they weren’t.
—
“This is outrageous!”
“Utter madness! Has he lost his mind?!”
“To give the guild to some nobody—some vagabond we know nothing about!”
“He must’ve gone senile! Completely out of his senses at the end!”
The drawing room roared like a marketplace.
I sat in silence, watching these so-called relatives shout like common street brawlers.
It had been only an hour since the funeral ended. Just one hour since the Count’s ashes had been
enshrined in the family crypt with myself, the Countess, and El standing witness. His warmth
hadn’t even faded from the urn.
And here they were—frothing at the mouth over the will.
El, too young for the cremation, had been allowed to attend the interment. I had insisted. No
matter how young, she had the right to see her father to the very end.
El had clung quietly to the Countess’s arms, calm and composed in a way that broke my heart. No
one had told her the full truth, and yet… it was as though she already knew.
“Is Papa not hurting anymore?” she had asked, voice small.
The Countess and I had exchanged glances. The girl’s face had been so serene.
“Will he watch me from here every day?”
“What do you mean, sweetheart?” the Countess asked, gently adjusting El in her arms.
“El said he would. Evan did… Didn’t he?”
That was when I knew. Evan had told her.
Somehow, while we’d tiptoed around the truth, uncertain how to protect her from the pain, he had
already done it. In a way she could understand.
The Countess pressed her face to El’s tiny shoulder.
“Mama… are you crying?”
“No, darling. No.”
But the Countess didn’t lift her head. And El’s face began to crumble.
I had walked over and brushed a hand gently through her soft hair. It was warm and smooth
beneath my palm, like silk—was it because of the color? That brilliant shade of red that never
failed to draw the eye.
“Evan was right,” I whispered. “He’ll be here, every day, watching over you.”
“He doesn’t hurt anymore?”
“No. He’s not hurting.”
El smiled brightly.
And that broke me.
I couldn’t smile back. My teeth clenched to keep from sobbing.
By the time we returned from the crypt, a crowd of so-called relatives were already waiting. They
immediately began hounding the Countess, demanding that she read the will. She had passed El
off to the nanny and led them into the large receiving room.
There, the Count’s steward—his old aide—read the will aloud.
And all hell broke loose.
At the time of the original timeline, I hadn’t attended the funeral. Nor the will reading. I’d
received only a tidy inheritance—some lands, jewels, and enough coin to live comfortably.
Nothing had prepared me for this kind of spectacle.
“You can’t do this to us!”
“How could he leave everything to that bastard?!”
In the center of the storm sat Evan—silent, unmoving.
Around him, the room seethed like a boiling cauldron. But the air near him remained… still, like
an eye in the storm.
“Please calm yourselves,” the Countess said evenly.
“Calm? Calm?! The entire guild—the very backbone of House Pison—handed over to some
stranger and you expect calm?!”
A man nearly choked on his fury, his voice rising above the others. The Countess, however, didn’
t raise hers in response.
“Yelling won’t change anything.”
The will named many beneficiaries. The Count’s estate was vast, and he had been thorough.
To the Countess and to El, he left the family estate and their lands, enough wealth and jewels to
live in comfort for the rest of their days. To me, he left a portion of land and valuables—much the
same as before. The title, of course, would one day pass to El’s future husband, once she came of
age.
So far, nothing shocking.
But then came the storm.
The Count had named Evan as the guardian of El and the sole heir to the merchant guild—the
heart of House Pison’s power. That was what had set them all off.
I wasn’t surprised by the guild. I had known Evan would inherit it.
What startled me—truly, deeply—was something else.
Evan… was not the Count’s adopted son.
That day, when we first met, he had introduced himself as “Evan Li.” Back then, I hadn’t
thought much of it. In the previous timeline, he’d been “Evan Li Pison,” legally adopted, title
and all. It seemed so minor at the time. But now it meant everything.
Something had changed.
Had El’s existence altered the outcome?
I couldn’t think of any other reason.
“No blood, no name, and he inherits the entire guild? Are we just supposed to accept that?”
“And the guardianship? He gets that, too? Shouldn’t one of us be looking after Ariel?!”
It was true. By imperial law, women could not inherit noble titles. Until El married and her
husband could assume the title, someone had to serve as her legal guardian—the de facto head of
the house.
And because the law also barred women from serving as guardians, even her own mother, the
Countess, was disqualified.
“Madam, surely you see this can’t stand,” someone said sharply. “You’re saying you trust a
stranger more than your own kin?”
The Countess looked at him with cool composure.
“I do,” she said.
“You trust him more than your own family?”
The man’s face turned red with outrage.
And the Countess, without blinking, answered quietly:
“Yes.”