"Grandpa? Grandpa?! Grandpa, the coffee maker is..." Celine noticed something was off and quickly called out to him.

The old man seemed to snap back to reality, his hand holding the coffee pot slowly retracting. He set the pot back down on the table, only then realizing his hand was trembling.

His normally sharp, keen eyes now looked a bit hazy. His gray hair seemed to have turned even whiter in that instant, and his voice was instantly laced with a deep weariness.

"Child, how do you know all this?"

It wasn't that he didn't trust this young woman, but the news was just too sudden, too earth-shattering. He'd tried every avenue for ten long years and found zilch. How could she, a young woman with no clout, no influence, and not even a dime to her name, have dug it all up?

"Someone helped me..." Celine's soft voice chimed in again.

She laid out the tangled web connecting Mason Morgan, Deputy Mayor Morgan, and the Lopez family for Dante's grandfather. She even delicately hinted at the agenda of some high-ranking official.

However, she kept Mason's true identity on the down-low, just calling him a "senior figure."

After listening, Dante's grandfather was silent for a long, long time. The air hung thick and heavy, and Celine didn't dare to break the spell with any hasty words.

An endless silence descended.

Time crawled, each second an agony. Celine felt like her own heartbeat had slowed to a crawl.

After what felt like an eternity, Dante's grandfather's voice, now icy and sharp as shattered glass, sliced through the quiet. His eyes were dark pits as he glared at the coffee cup on the table, as if it were his sworn enemy.

"Celine, thank you for telling me. I'll look into it myself. You should go home for now."

Celine nodded and left. She didn't dare tell the old man to take it easy or to stay strong. No one could process news like this with a cool head.

To find out his own son and daughter-in-law were murdered in cold blood, and that years of digging yielded nothing.

To finally unearth the truth, only to discover it was a puppet show orchestrated by a powerful force.

It was too much for anyone to stomach.

The fact that Grandpa was even this composed was frankly amazing.

Long after Celine departed, as the sky bled into twilight, the study remained dark and utterly still.

Not until night had fully claimed the land and the moon hung high did a sudden, earth-shattering crash erupt from the study, followed by the violent symphony of shattering porcelain.

It was like a dam breaking, a long-suppressed explosion. A table lay overturned, coffee cups lay in smithereens.

The butler downstairs, on edge, scrambled up the stairs. He heard the old man's voice, a raw blend of devastation and pure fury, tearing through the night.

"Where's that useless Dante?! Tell him to get his butt back here, stat!"

The bewildered butler immediately rang the young master, urging his swift return.

When Dante arrived home, the butler filled him in, wordlessly hinting that Celine had dropped by earlier and that Grandpa had thrown a royal fit.

Dante shot the butler a chilling look, ignoring the unspoken gossip, and simply warned him to keep his trap shut in the future.

The butler, suitably chastened, fell silent.

In the study, now restored from its earlier chaos, his grandfather sat alone on the sofa. No scowl, no glare as usual. Instead, his back was hunched, his head bowed in silent contemplation.

For the first time, Dante truly registered his grandfather's age.

The stern, commanding figure he’d always known seemed to have faded into the past.

He walked in and stood before the old man, his voice a low murmur. "What's the emergency that required me to come back?"

The elder looked up, catching the faint scent of alcohol and perfume clinging to him. "Where were you tonight?" he asked, his voice heavy. "Still messing around with that Lopez girl?"

Dante's brow furrowed. Even though he now understood his feelings for Celine, Isabella was still his first love. He couldn't stand anyone speaking ill of her, not even his own grandfather.

But he could also tell something was seriously off with his grandfather tonight. He’d been at a business dinner. While they hadn't arrived together, Isabella had indeed been there.

He gave a reluctant nod, about to explain, but his grandfather cut him off.

Seeing the nod, the old man rose and strode out of the study, his voice a command over his shoulder, "Follow me."

They proceeded to the family chapel. Dante's grandfather lit a candle for his son and daughter-in-law, then turned to Dante, gesturing towards his parents' memorial plaques. "Kneel."

Dante couldn't fathom the reason. Why was he being forced to kneel in the chapel for no apparent cause? He’d just been at a business dinner, looking out for the family's interests. What sin had he committed to deserve this?

He stood rigidly, refusing to kneel, and tried to speak. His grandfather's cane lashed across his back.

"Grandpa! You can beat me to death today, and I still wouldn't think I've done anything wrong!"

The old man kicked him hard in the back of the knee, forcing him down. Fury coursed through him as he continued to cane him, his voice trembling. "Fine... fine! Then I'll beat you until you can't stand!"

The cane fell again and again. With each crack, Dante was transported back to the last time he'd been beaten, months prior.

Celine had still been his wife then. When his grandfather had thrashed him, she had shielded him.

Now, there was no Celine to protect him. As the blows rained down, it finally hit him.

It hurt this much. How had she endured it back then?

And how had she, after being beaten, then knelt in this chapel for him all night?

All for a husband who spent his days humiliating and tormenting her... and for a fight he'd gotten into over another woman, no less...

A wave of heartache for her, coupled with the humiliation of the moment, washed over him. For a time, he couldn't tell which hurt more—the cane on his back or the ache in his heart.

When his grandfather finally stopped, Dante’s spine remained ramrod straight, his refusal to admit fault unwavering.

But the old man seemed to have suddenly shed all his strength. He dropped the cane and slowly walked over to stand beside his son's memorial plaque.

Leaning one hand on the altar, he used the other to gently trace the plaque. His back bent deeply as he bowed before it, his voice an ancient whisper, heavy with desolation.