"Aunt? Is she the aunt who had a big fight with my father and ran away from home for several years?"
At the butler Freddy's words, an image flashed through Loren's mind: a woman shimmering with jewels.
That woman was none other than his aunt, Maeve Morgan.
According to the fused memories, the original owner's father had actually been the youngest of three siblings—preceded by an older brother and an older sister.
Tragically, their uncle had died in a car accident under mysterious circumstances, leaving behind only his widow—Aunt Maeve—and his younger brother. A few years later, the two surviving siblings clashed bitterly over the inheritance of the Morgan family estate.
Maeve had always believed that her younger brother—the original owner's father—had hired someone to murder their eldest brother in order to seize control of the family fortune. Convinced of his guilt, she grew to despise him, targeting him at every turn, until their feud escalated to open hostility.
But Loren knew the truth was otherwise. His father had never wanted to become head of the Morgan family—not then, not ever. In fact, he'd longed to leave the family entirely and live a life of his own choosing.
Yet when their eldest brother died, their father forced the reluctant younger son to assume the role of family head. No matter how fiercely he resisted, it was futile. He'd even tried to explain this to Maeve—but she refused to believe him.
Instead, she became convinced that her younger brother had somehow bewitched their father into handing him the mantle of leadership.
Three years ago, after all resistance failed, the original owner's father reluctantly accepted the position. From that day forward, Maeve severed all ties with the Morgan family and vanished without a trace—a clean, bitter parting of ways.
Now, three years later, Loren never expected this long-absent aunt to suddenly reappear. It was deeply unsettling—especially since she hadn't even shown up at his parents' funeral.
When something felt this off, there was almost certainly a reason. His aunt might have ulterior motives… or worse.
Still, as her nephew, he couldn't very well refuse to see her now that she'd arrived.
He immediately called for 2B to help him dress. But having grown significantly taller, none of his old clothes fit anymore. For now, he'd have to make do with a few black suits hastily sent from outside.
As he slipped into the tailored suit, Loren's muscular frame disappeared beneath the sleek fabric—a perfect example of "skinny when dressed, ripped when undressed." Combined with his striking features, he exuded an air of noble elegance, like a prince from a European palace.
2B's cheeks flushed as she watched him. Her eyes sparkled with admiration—and something deeper. If circumstances had allowed, she might have thrown herself at him again.
"Let's go," Loren said, striding leisurely toward the manor's grand hall. "Time to meet my aunt."
2B followed close behind, her expression demure and respectful—like a devoted, obedient wife.
In the reception area, a middle-aged woman sat with poised dignity, her face artfully painted with heavy makeup. To her right rested a gift box; its contents unknown.
Even before Loren drew near, his enhanced sense of smell caught a faint, sweet fragrance—clearly emanating from some kind of food inside the box.
This elegant woman was none other than Maeve Morgan.
The moment she saw Loren approaching, she rose gracefully and smiled. "Oh, my dear nephew! It's been years—I can hardly believe how tall you've grown. You look every bit the man now."
As she spoke, she reached out and gently touched his cheek.
But before she could touch him, Loren calmly stepped back and deftly dodged.
"Ms. Maeve," he said, "it seems you and I aren't very familiar with each other."
From his merged memories, Loren had learned that the woman before him—his so-called aunt—had never liked him. In fact, she'd deliberately humiliated him as a child simply because she despised her own father. Knowing this, how could he possibly welcome her false affection now? To him, Maeve's sudden intimacy was nothing but a disguise. But why pretend? That only made him more wary.
At his words, embarrassment flickered across Maeve's face.
"My dear nephew," she said earnestly, "I know you resent me for not attending your parents' funeral—but I truly didn't know about it until recently. I only learned the news a short while ago, and I came here immediately."
Her expression softened with sorrow, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Anyone unfamiliar with her might have believed she was genuinely mourning her brother. But Loren knew better. Her hatred for her father had been profound—how could she possibly grieve his death?
"Ms. Maeve," Loren said bluntly, "you don't need to act in front of me. I'm well aware of the grudge between you and my father. So tell me—what's the real reason for your sudden visit?"
A flash of viciousness crossed Maeve's eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Nephew, you've misunderstood me," she replied, her voice gentle. "Yes, your father and I had our differences—but we were siblings, after all. Blood is thicker than water! Compared to life and death, our old quarrels mean nothing. Don't you agree?"
"Really?" Loren gave a small, humorless smile. "So I'm the narrow-minded one? If that's how you see it, then I suppose I can still call you 'aunt.'"
"Exactly!" Maeve said, relief washing over her features. "Our conflict is long behind us. Besides, the grievances of our generation shouldn't burden the younger ones. I'm truly glad you can forgive me."
She reached for a box on the table. "By the way, I baked these European-style pastries myself—just for you. I hope you like them."
She opened the box, revealing rows of exquisitely crafted treats. A faint, sweet fragrance drifted into Loren's nostrils, and he frowned slightly.
"Your pastries smell wonderful," he said, picking up a biscuit with a hint of amusement.
"I added a touch of Chinese tea leaves," Maeve explained with a light laugh. "It gives them a delicate aroma. Go on—try one. They're delicious."
"Well," Loren said, "it's rare for my aunt to bake for me personally. I'd be rude not to accept."
He nodded, placed the biscuit in his mouth, and began to chew.
As she watched him eat, Maeve couldn't suppress a flicker of secret satisfaction.
Then, without warning, Loren's expression twisted in pain.
He collapsed to the floor, clutching his stomach, and raised a trembling finger toward her. "You… this cookie is poisoned?!"