Delphine didn't look at him. Her gaze fell on the lush, climbing vines outside the café. She didn't like the Leclair Family; that red mansion was like a giant beast that devoured people. Mrs. Carter became a vegetative shell after marrying into it, and the former Mrs. Leclair had passed away. Perhaps the overwhelming power was too much—on the battlefield of men, women often became casualties.
She didn't know when it would be her turn. In truth, it had already happened once six years ago, and it might happen again in the future.
She was no longer the helpless stepdaughter of a wealthy family. If she could stand tall and live her life openly, why should she let herself be controlled by others?
As for Ignatius Leclair—this man had always been an unfathomable abyss, impossible to see through, guess, or grasp. Whatever love there was had died long ago—six years ago, to be exact.
