In the empty villa, Celia Quinn sat motionless on the sofa. It wasn’t until much later that the villa’s front door swung open, and Lucas Shaw stepped inside. His gaze paused briefly on her, then his expression turned cold. 

“Yvonne is running a fever today. Why did you keep calling me?” 

Celia rose to her feet, her head still lowered, remaining silent. She didn’t respond, and Lucas didn’t leave either. After a while, she finally spoke in a low voice, “I needed to talk to you earlier.” 

“What for? You’re standing here perfectly fine. What could possibly be so urgent?” 

Her explanation failed to earn his understanding. 

Instead, his tone grew colder. “Didn’t I tell you Yvonne isn’t feeling well and that I’d be with her all day? What’s the point of you doing this on purpose? Celia, I’ve told you before not to harbor those improper thoughts about me. I’m your uncle—it’s impossible! If you pull something like this again, you’ll have to move out.” 

With that, Lucas went straight upstairs, slamming the door behind him as he entered his room. 

Downstairs, Celia remained standing, quietly watching his retreating figure. 

After a moment, she softly murmured, “Uncle, I’m sorry. There won’t be a next time. Because… I’m already dead.” 

Her voice was barely audible, and Lucas, already upstairs, didn’t hear her words. 

Celia didn’t seem to care. 

She sat back on the sofa, lost in thought, memories surfacing uncontrollably. 

Lucas wasn’t her biological uncle but a close friend of her father’s. 

From a young age, she had loved clinging to him, calling him “Brother.” 

Every time, Lucas would patiently correct her. 

“Not brother, call me Uncle.” 

The year she finally switched to calling him “Uncle” was when she was eight. Her parents were killed in a tragic car accident, leaving her orphaned. 

Lucas took her in and brought her to his home.