Chapter 22
“No matter what you say,” Agnès said clearly, each word calm but firm, “I’m Noah’s mother.”
Maybe to others, she might have looked foolish — a stubborn, selfish woman clinging to something she shouldn’t.
Even Lizzie and Pavel beside her didn’t know the truth.
But Agnès did.
She and Noah didn’t share a single drop of blood.
Still — does being a parent only mean sharing blood?
Does having the same blood automatically make you family?
If so, then what?
Would that mean Agnès and Noah weren’t truly mother and son?
That Baron Everchen and Agnès weren’t truly father and daughter?
To Agnès, family meant something far deeper than blood.
And because of that, her eyes didn’t waver for even a moment.
Rickman looked at her quietly — the way a man might admire a strange, fascinating object.
“Don’t waste your energy,” he said finally. “There’s an easier way.”
Rickman didn’t step closer, probably because Pavel was standing guard.
But his voice was heavy, sticky — pressing down on her like oil in her lungs.
“Come back to me.”
The words made Agnès’s breath catch.
She closed her eyes for a moment and forced herself to clear her throat, just to stay composed.
When she opened them again, her golden eyes were burning — filled with anger.
Her hands trembled as she clenched them together tightly.
“You’re the one who threw me out.”
Her voice shook, but her words were sharp.
He had humiliated her — cast her out like garbage — and now dared to ask her to come back, as if nothing had happened.
She could still remember that day vividly: how she had been dragged out like an animal, her knees bruised and scraped against the floor.
And yet, Rickman’s tone was soft — almost gentle — as though he were comforting her.
“I only wanted to fix your behavior.”
“I did my best,” she said, trembling, “as your wife and as Noah’s mother.”
“Then you should come back and keep doing your best. What are you doing wasting time here? Is your pride more important than your child? Don’t you know how much he misses you?”
At those last words — that Noah missed her — Agnès’s jaw shook.
Rickman noticed it instantly and smiled triumphantly.
“He keeps asking when you’ll come home,” he continued, his tone rich with satisfaction.
“He even came to me himself — can you believe that? The timid little boy who used to hide behind his tutor.
He still can’t speak much, but now he studies hard, even started sword training. He’s really growing up.”
“What? Sword training? He’s only five years old!”
“Exactly. That’s why I realized — there’s no better mother for him than you.”
Rickman turned to his secretary and gestured silently.
Without a word, the man opened his briefcase and pulled out a large brown envelope.
Rickman took it smoothly and handed it toward Agnès.
“It’s a marriage registration form.”
Agnès’s eyes widened. “Are you insane?”
“No,” he said evenly. “I’m just admitting that I went too far before. Come back to me, Agnès. Be Noah’s mother again.”
Rickman stepped closer, pretending to be calm, even fatherly.
“I’m not saying I want to force sword training on him. But if he insists, I won’t stop him either. Boys love swords, don’t they? It’s a father’s duty to support his son’s interests.”
“Rickman…”
He smiled faintly. “That’s where you come in. You should stop him when needed, guide him, teach him.
He also needs to socialize more — make friends, learn to speak again.
We can discuss the details after you sign this form.
Once you’ve signed, you’ll come back to my house, and we’ll talk everything through.
Now then,” he said, tapping the envelope. “Think carefully, Agnès. Think about what’s really best for Noah.”
Agnès looked down at the document, then back up at his arrogant, confident smile.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, finally, she reached out and took the envelope.
“…I understand.”
Her lips were pale, her voice quiet.
Rickman smiled — a charming, polished smile that would have made most women blush.
But none of the people standing there — not Agnès, not Lizzie, not Pavel — were fooled.
When he left, the air seemed to finally loosen again.
Lizzie immediately turned to Agnès, her voice trembling.
“My lady, please tell me you’re not… you’re not actually going back to him, are you?”
“Miss Lizzie,” Pavel said, his tone measured, “we shouldn’t interfere with the lady’s decision.”
“This isn’t the time for manners!” Lizzie snapped, her earlier blush replaced with outrage. “Do you have any idea what that man did to her?”
But before she could continue, Agnès’s calm voice cut through the air.
“Lizzie, enough. This isn’t the place to talk. Let’s go home first.”
“My lady…”
Lizzie’s eyes filled with tears. Agnès gently patted her back before stepping forward.
Her posture was still straight — but somehow, her back looked smaller than ever.
***
Even though Rickman had handed her the marriage form, there was only one place Agnès could go.
Her carriage returned to where it had started — the Basteron townhouse.
Throughout the ride, Lizzie kept glancing nervously at the envelope in Agnès’s hands, but Agnès’s expression barely changed.
The silence was heavy and suffocating.
When the carriage stopped, Pavel stepped out first, then Lizzie.
“My lady?” Lizzie called softly.
Agnès looked up suddenly, as if startled — she hadn’t even noticed they’d arrived.
“Sorry,” she murmured, then reached out her hand to step down.
A cool, steady hand caught hers — a hand much larger than Lizzie’s.
Pavel? Agnès thought — but when she stepped out, she found herself face-to-face with Dylan.
“Your Grace,” she said, startled.
Dylan supported her with natural, effortless grace — one arm around her waist, one steadying her hand.
Before she knew it, her feet were on solid ground again.
He smiled gently, his tone light.
“Did you enjoy your outing?”
“Thanks to your help,” she replied politely.
“If you have some time,” he said, “would you care to take a walk with me in the garden? I’d love to hear about your pleasant day.”
Agnès was naïve in many ways — but not stupid.
She understood what he really meant.
He already knew what had happened today.
He must have heard about it — if not from Pavel, then from someone else.
“Of course,” she said with a calm smile, taking his offered arm.
They walked slowly through the garden, attendants following at a respectful distance.
“Your Grace,” she began, “thank you for allowing Sir Pavel to accompany me today. I was able to enjoy myself more because of it.”
“Pavel is skilled with a sword — and with conversation,” Dylan replied lightly.
“He enjoys a good story, so I thought he’d be the best escort.”
“He really was. I thought all knights were solemn and stiff, but his stories were full of life and humor.”
Agnès covered her mouth and laughed softly.
As the two continued to chat, Gaveline — always watchful — subtly signaled for the attendants to fall farther behind.
By the time Agnès and Dylan reached a quiet area of the garden where a tea table had been set, the others were far enough away that they couldn’t overhear.
Agnès was quietly impressed.
The servants here knew exactly how to act — not with fear or haste like in Rickman’s house, but with practiced elegance.
She sat down gracefully with Dylan’s help, and Gaveline served the tea himself.
Agnès thanked him with a glance, then set the brown envelope on the table.
“As you may already know,” she said softly, “this is the marriage registration form from Count Overhan — my former husband.
He said that if I return, I’ll regain the title of Countess and the right to be Noah’s mother.”
Dylan said nothing. He lifted his teacup and breathed in the aroma — calm, composed, not pretending to be surprised or feigning ignorance.
As the scent of tea spread gently through the air, he finally spoke, his voice even and thoughtful.
“So, you’re not showing me this because you wish to end our arrangement, I assume.”
“What?” she asked, momentarily confused.
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” she said quickly. “You’re right. I’m not going back to Count Overhan.”
Even as she said it, Agnès felt a strange flutter in her chest — a mix of relief, fear, and something she couldn’t yet name.
