Marco leaned back, a scoff escaping his lips as he eyed his younger sister with sheer disbelief.
"This… this is exactly what Father meant," he said, voice sharp. "You're different from the rest of us, Anne. You think too much with your heart. You care about emotions, personality… feelings. But tell me—can emotions feed you? Can a man's sweet words lift your status in this world?"
He paused, shaking his head slowly.
"You really believed a man like that could elevate you? That his kindness could be enough?" His voice turned cold. "He's a man from the mountains, Anne. A nobody. No title. No legacy. And look what you brought home."
Anne opened her mouth, but no words came out.
"Even Father warned you, didn't he? We all did. I told you to marry into the Alexanders. They were a powerful family—noble, respected. But you refused. You said he didn't love you." He sneered. "Since when did love matter more than dignity?"
Anne lowered her head, her voice barely a whisper.
"I followed my heart. He was… a good man. Gentle. Honest. I loved him for who he was."
Marco laughed bitterly.
"You married him for love?" He gestured harshly. "And what did you bring back to this family? A daughter who carries no trace of us. No name. No resemblance. Mireyna Tokushiro—do you not feel ashamed, Anne?"
He stood, pacing now as his voice hardened further.
"If her surname was Lyssander, if her features reflected even a fraction of our bloodline, perhaps I could accept her. But she looks just like him. Her hair, her eyes—nothing of us remains." He turned sharply. "She's beautiful, I won't deny that. But she's Japanese. The Lyssander blood is fading in her."
Anne clenched her fists. "She's still ours. She has our values. She's kind."
"Of course she is," Marco snapped. "Japanese people are respectful by nature. Not arrogant like Westerners. That's probably why you fell for him in the first place."
He paused, then added with a hiss, "But don't fool yourself, Anne. Kindness doesn't preserve legacy. Empathy doesn't build empires."
Anne tried to steady her breathing.
"Then what would you have me do, Marco? Divorce him now? Leave my daughter without a father?"
Marco gave her a withering stare.
"That's the price you pay when you choose emotion over legacy."
He sat back down, rubbing his temples in frustration.
"You remind me of Mother. Always full of empathy, always dreaming. But this family—our family—doesn't thrive on dreams. We survive by preserving our name, our bloodline, our rank. That's what you threw away, Anne."
He leaned forward one last time, voice low and sharp.
"I told you a thousand times—don't make the wrong choice, or you'll regret it. And now look at you. You chose wrong. And now…"
He raised his chin.
"You live with it."
Marco shook his head again, frustration tightening in his jaw.
"Anne,do you even realize—you and Isabella are the same. Two daughters, the most cherished and adored daughters of the Lyssander lineage. And why? Because you possess the features of a true Lyssander. That golden, sun-kissed hair… that elegance, that brilliance. You were gifted in everything. Talented. Refined. Just like Isabella. You were Father's greatest hope—the jewel of our bloodline meant to shape a new generation."
He paused, voice growing heavier.
"He loved you the most. Do you know what he once told me? That among all our siblings, you were the most beautiful. The most promising. But what did you do with all of that?"
A cold laugh escaped his lips.
"What did you do, Anne?You threw it away. You cast off your own perfection. The very traits that could've been passed to your child—your talent, your beauty—you wasted them. That gift… completely squandered."
His voice darkened.
"Father nearly collapsed the day he heard you'd married a man like that. A Japanese man. He was crushed, Anne.He had dreamed of seeing a grandchild as radiant as you. A child that carried the Lyssander flame. And instead, you gave him this—"
He waved a hand dismissively.
"A child of Japan. How ironic."
"It gave me a headache, Anne.A real one."
Marco stood tall now, as if reclaiming the moral high ground.
"But at least I gave him joy before he died. I gave him Isabella. A daughter who looks exactly like you. And you know what he said?"
"He said he was proud. He said he was happy. Because he saw you in her. Even though she's mine—she reminded him of you."
He looked down at Anne now, not with compassion, but with exhausted disappointment.
"And that made me proud too. Because what pleased Father, pleased me. But deep down, he was still grieving. Why? Because the grandchild he truly wanted… was supposed to come from you. Not from me."
Marco's tone lowered, but the sting sharpened.
"Until the day he died… he was disappointed in you. He spoiled you. He loved you more than anyone. And you broke his heart."
Ann finally found her voice.
"So what are you saying, Marco? That I'm the reason Father died?"
Marco didn't flinch.
"I never said that. I never blamed you. But if you believe it's your fault…"
He tilted his head slightly.
"…then maybe it is"
He stepped back toward the heavy double doors of the Lyssander family office, its walls lined with ancient books and gilded portraits—an archive of generations. His final words were delivered coldly.
"Think about it, Anne. There's nothing left to fix now. What's done is done. Father is gone. You have your child, and I have mine. Just accept it. The difference is… my child is better than yours."
Marco opened the door, his footsteps echoing into the hall. Just outside, he spotted her—Mireyna—standing silently by the corridor wall.
He paused, meeting the girl's eyes. He knew.
She'd heard everything.
He looked her up and down like she was an insect beneath his boot.
Then he leaned down, voice soft and venomous.
"unfortunate child"
And with that, he turned and walked away.
After Marco left, Anne's cries filled the room, each sob breaking the heavy silence. Mireyna, sitting just outside the door, couldn't hold back her own tears. She had only heard the harsh words through the door, but the pain of her mother's suffering cut deep. Even as a child, she could feel the sting of Marco's words, and the weight of the family's expectations pressing down on her.
She sat there, feeling powerless, her small body trembling with the sorrow she didn't fully understand but could still feel. Mireyna wiped her eyes, her heart aching for her mother, wishing she could do something, anything, to make it stop.