The old man was watching Lara. Not just watching, but observing and assessing.
He seemed to read her thoughts and understood her dilemma.
"Girl, you may call me Grandpa Randell."
He leaned back into the chair, fingers lightly tapping against the armrest as his gaze lingered on Lara. Not rudely. Not obviously. But thoroughly.
That curtsy earlier...
It wasn't something learned from books or films.
It was habit. A conditioning.
The kind carved into a person through years—no, decades—of repetition.
His eyes darkened slightly.
And those eyes of hers…
There was restraint there. Discipline. A quiet strength wrapped beneath softness.
Not a social climber. Not a gold digger and definitely not ordinary.
And yet… she stands here as a governess?
A faint scoff echoed in his mind.
Ridiculous.
His gaze flicked briefly to Ares.
His grandson stood tall, composed as ever—but the old man knew better. He had raised men like him. Built empires around instincts sharper than blades.
