The quiet of the study had just begun to settle when the door creaked open without so much as a knock.
Luna turned her head, frowning.
Two sharply dressed men stepped in—similar enough in their bone structure to Emmerich that Luna knew instantly: family. One had hair slicked back and an expression like ice. The other carried himself like a man used to being listened to, his jaw tight with unspoken judgment.
They didn't greet her.
Their gazes landed on her like twin daggers—sharp, assessing, and unapologetically cold.
Then, as if she were furniture, they turned to Emmerich.
"Uncle," said the older one, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "We just received the news. Tell us it's not true."
"That you've handed everything," the other added, teeth clenched, "to some bimbo you found because she looks like your daughter."
Luna's eyebrows shot up. Her heart thudded once—loudly.
Emmerich's hand had just barely twitched toward the desk when Luna stood, slow and deliberate, her mouth a tight line.
She walked up to them—past the desk, past her own disbelief—and without a word, she slapped the first one across the cheek.
A sharp crack.
Then, before the other could react—another clean slap. Right across the second man's smug face.
Both nephews recoiled, eyes blazing.
"You—!" The older one stepped forward, his hand half-raised in fury.
But Emmerich moved like a shadow.
In one smooth motion, he stepped between them, his arm shooting out to pull Luna back gently but firmly, shielding her with the full breadth of his composed frame.
He didn't shout. He didn't scowl.
But when he spoke, his voice cut like a winter wind.
"You will not lay a hand on her."
The nephews froze. The man they admired, perhaps even feared, had never spoken to them like that.
"She is my daughter," Emmerich said, each word deliberate. "And the rightful heir to everything this family stands for. If you cannot respect that, then you will excuse yourselves from this room, and from my sight."
For a moment, the two young men stood rigid with disbelief, as if the floor had opened beneath them.
"…You're choosing her?" the younger one hissed. "After everything we've done for this family?"
Emmerich's eyes, so often unreadable, were glacial now. "I am not choosing anyone. I am recognizing what should have always been hers."
It was the final blow.
Their expressions twisted—hurt buried under years of pride and privilege.
Without another word, they turned and stormed from the room, stiff-backed and simmering, but defeated.
As the door shut with a soft click, silence returned, crackling in the air like static.
Luna exhaled shakily behind him. "Okay. So that happened."
Emmerich turned slowly, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
"You didn't have to do that," he said softly.
She shrugged, looking at the reddening marks on her palm. "Yeah, well… they were asking for it."
He chuckled under his breath—just once. Then nodded, his hand lingering a moment longer before retreating.
"They won't touch you," he said. "Not now, not ever. I promise."
Luna met his gaze, searching it.
And for the first time, she wasn't entirely sure what she saw in his eyes scared her… or made her feel safe.
The silence after the storm stretched, still tingling with leftover tension. Luna flexed her fingers absently, her palm stinging from the slaps. The skin was already flushing red, a faint throb blooming across it.
Emmerich turned back to her, his sharp gaze softening the moment he noticed.
"Is your hand alright?"
Luna blinked, glancing down. "Oh. Yeah. Just a little sore. Nothing big."
But Emmerich was already moving, striding toward a drawer tucked beneath one of the bookshelves. He opened it with the ease of habit and pulled out a small silver tin.
"This should help," he said, crossing back to her.
He unscrewed the lid to reveal a thick, translucent salve with a faint herbal scent. "I formulated it myself," he added, almost offhandedly. "Wound repair without sting. I always keep some around."
She raised an eyebrow as he took her hand carefully in his own.
"Do you usually keep it on hand for slap-related injuries?"
Emmerich allowed a faint smile as he gently dabbed the balm on her palm with a soft cloth. "No. I kept it around for your mother."
Luna's breath hitched just slightly.
"She had a habit of acting before thinking whenever her heart got involved," he said, voice distant and warm with memory. "If something moved her, she followed it—no matter how foolish, how painful. She was fierce like that. Passionate to the point of injury."
Luna watched his face, the way his eyes softened into a world long gone.
"Why?" she asked quietly. "Why did you choose her? Of all people in your world, all the elegant, poised heiresses and boardroom geniuses… Why my mom?"
Emmerich paused, gaze still on her hand. Then, slowly, he looked up and met her eyes.
And he smiled—wistful, quiet, a little sad.
"Because," he said, "she made everything in my world come alive. She didn't fit in it—not even close—but when she was around, colors seemed brighter. My home felt less like a monument and more like a place to laugh. She was the only person who could laugh at me without making me feel small."
His voice gentled even further.
"She'd step into a room and hum some tune off-key, tease me for my stiff posture, get the whole lab singing with her ridiculous rhymes—and I hated it, and I loved it. I lived for it."
Luna swallowed thickly. Something in her chest tightened, unfamiliar and aching.
"She sounds…" she began, then faltered. "She sounds like someone hard to forget."
"She was impossible to forget," Emmerich said simply. "Even after she left, I kept hearing her voice in my head. Especially when I was being too proud, too cold, too careful."
He finished wrapping her hand with a soft bandage, the warmth of the balm now sinking into her skin.
Luna flexed her fingers again. The sting was already fading.
"She never told me about you," she said quietly.
Emmerich nodded, his face unreadable now. "She wanted you to have the freedom she never had. Even if it meant cutting herself off from me entirely."
Luna looked down at her hand, then at the man before her—this stranger with her cheekbones and her eyes and a heart that had quietly mourned for more than two decades.
"…Thanks," she murmured, raising her wrapped hand.
He gave a small nod, saying nothing more.
But in the shared silence, something fragile and healing passed between them.
Emmerich's hand lingered for a moment on the tin before quietly setting it aside on the desk. The silence returned, but it had shifted—less charged, more contemplative.
"They're your cousins," he said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. "Those two young men."
Luna raised an eyebrow. "The ones I slapped?"
He gave her a patient look, though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. "Yes. Sebas and Cass. They've been with me since they were seven. Their parents—my younger brother and his wife—died in a transport crash. A business trip gone wrong. I took them in after that."
Luna's expression sobered. "Oh."
"They were already quiet boys back then," Emmerich went on. "But losing their family made them… colder. Focused. They grew up in this house. They saw the boardroom and the factory floor before they saw a playground. The company became their anchor, their identity. Sometimes I wonder if they even know who they are outside of it."
He looked away, just slightly. "I didn't tell you this to ask for forgiveness on their behalf. I won't justify the way they treated you today. But I thought you should know the shape of their world… before you decide how you'll live in it."
Luna leaned back in her chair, processing.
"So," she said slowly, "you're telling me they've had it rough."
"In some ways, yes."
She folded her arms, staring down at her bandaged hand. "Huh. Guess I can't say they're the only ones."
Emmerich tilted his head, waiting.
Luna sighed and sat up straighter. "I mean—look, I didn't slap them because I hate rich people or because they're your favorites or whatever. I did it because I was overwhelmed. They came in, looked at me like I was a stray dog, and said I wasn't real. Like my entire existence was a scam. I panicked. My anxiety kicked up. So I acted without thinking."
She gestured vaguely toward the door they'd exited through. "Everyone's got something they carry, Dad. I get that. I'm not mad at them for being bitter or scared. I'm just—" she paused, frowning. "—trying not to fall apart. This morning I woke up in satin pajamas with a view of a hedge maze. Three days ago, I was using my phone flashlight to find socks under my futon."
Emmerich gave a small nod, his expression unreadable.
She called me Dad...
"I'll try not to slap them next time," Luna muttered.
A flicker of amusement ghosted across his face. "That would be appreciated."
"But no promises," she added quickly.
He chuckled—quiet, low in his throat. "Understood."
The silence between them felt gentler now, like a small step forward on a long road. Luna leaned back in the chair again, her gaze drifting to the window, where sunlight filtered through the tall glass.
Outside, the world had not stopped spinning.
But inside, something was beginning to shift.