Saturday. Rain.
Kensington district—Morstan Manor.
London's rain always came without warning.
Half an hour ago the sky had still been clear; now lead-gray clouds blanketed everything.
Fine drizzle fell in dense threads, wrapping the whole city in damp cold.
Mary sat in her room, holding a cup of hot black tea.
The fragrance rose thickly. White steam drifted upward, fogging the glass with a soft milky blur.
The girl was… irritated.
Not because of the endless rain outside—
But because of the suffocating pressure that had been hanging over the family these past few days.
Her father—the Duke of Morstan—had not appeared at dinner for three straight days.
The study door stayed shut at all times. From inside, muffled phone calls leaked out from time to time—low voices, restrained anger, a brittle edge of impatience.
The household's expensive cigars and whisky were being consumed faster than ever.
To be honest, not seeing that man wasn't exactly bad news for Mary.
But "not seeing that man for several days in a row" was, in itself, never a good sign.
The root of it all traced back to last Sunday—
The day The Times exposed Ethan Roy's ugly mess to the public.
At first, Mary's reaction had been pure schadenfreude. And her father's had been indifference.
The Morstans had business dealings with the Roys, yes—but nothing deeply entangled. If the Roy family collapsed and Ethan Roy fell, they could cut ties cleanly at any time.
All they needed was to terminate a few cooperative projects, declare their stance, and they could ride out the storm—maybe even carve off a slice of profit if they were lucky.
Unfortunately, both father and daughter had underestimated Mycroft.
That man known as "the British government" was far more ruthless in a purge than anyone imagined.
Mycroft's reckoning wasn't flashy.
It was… quiet.
No direct suppression. No public condemnation.
Only "routine" commercial audits.
Shipping permits "temporarily" shelved.
Loan conditions that suddenly turned harsh and unforgiving…
A slow boil.
By the time the Duke of Morstan truly realized something was wrong, an invisible hand was already clamped around the Morstan family's throat.
And after that, their cash reserves began inching—step by step—toward a dangerous line.
"Tch…"
Mary frowned, her fingers tightening around the teacup.
What annoyed her wasn't the potential loss to the family. None of that had anything to do with her.
Even if Mycroft seemed to be squeezing House Morstan, he wouldn't truly push them into irreversible ruin.
He needed a behemoth like them alive—Britain needed it.
After all, the Morstan group's companies provided thousands of jobs every year.
If they went bankrupt, those unemployed workers would probably band together and set Buckingham Palace on fire.
So Mary had never been worried about that.
What she worried about… was the man in the study.
Being alive and living comfortably were two completely different things.
And who knew what he would do to "stop the bleeding" in time?
As she was thinking, the man's voice sounded outside the door.
"Mary."
Of course. When you didn't want trouble, it always came looking for you.
Mary thought silently.
"I'm here, Father," she answered.
His voice was low, as if suppressing something—commanding, leaving no room for refusal.
"Put on something appropriate. Five minutes. You're coming out with me."
"Where…?" Mary asked.
"Lloyds Bank."
With that, he walked away, leaving Mary alone in the room—confusion flickering through her eyes.
Why the bank?
And what could they even do there? Hadn't their loan request been rejected the day before yesterday?
She couldn't make sense of it…
The irritation surged again.
Even so, Mary obediently set her cup down and walked into the wardrobe room.
She opened the massive cedar cabinet. Dresses of every style hung within—each tailored for a specific kind of occasion.
Every one of them… like a mask.
Her gaze passed over them one by one, finally settling on a long black dress.
No unnecessary decoration, no fussy tailoring.
A high collar covered her pale throat. Long sleeves reached all the way to her wrists.
Proper. Not revealing. Suitable for a public place like a bank.
Five minutes later, Mary appeared in the entry hall on the dot.
The Duke of Morstan was already waiting.
He said nothing about her outfit—only gave a faint nod, then turned and walked out.
Mary followed in silence.
The carriage cut through the curtain of rain. Inside the cabin, the silence was deathly.
Mary sat quietly, her eyes resting on her hands—white lace gloves drawn smooth over her fingers.
"Father," she finally spoke, breaking the suffocating stillness.
"Are we going to Lloyds because there's a new investment project?"
"You'll know when we get there," the Duke replied evenly, as if the family crisis had never happened.
So Mary wisely shut her mouth and waited.
The carriage stopped before the grand entrance of Lloyds Bank.
A staff member held an umbrella, escorting them into the lobby.
Warm, dry air instantly sealed them off from the damp chill outside.
The Duke approached the front desk and spoke to the receptionist.
The receptionist picked up the desk telephone and dialed a number.
After a brief exchange, he put the phone down.
A few minutes later, a well-dressed man approached—his smile sharp, shrewd, faintly mercenary.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Morstan—and Miss Morstan," he said.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Tommy," Mary replied softly.
"Your Grace, this way please. We've prepared a private reception room. We can discuss the matter you mentioned in detail there."
"Mm." The Duke answered indifferently and started walking.
As he passed Mary, he didn't even glance at her. He simply issued an order.
"Mary. Wait here."
"Yes, Father."
Mary answered obediently—because it suited her perfectly.
She watched her father and Mr. Tommy disappear down the corridor.
A heavy oak door, banded with brass, closed behind them—silently cutting off everything.
Mary found a velvet sofa against the wall and sat down, posture elegant.
She didn't look at the gazes directed at her—those mixed looks of awe and curiosity prompted by her father's arrival.
She simply sat, accepted the tea the attendant brought, and continued thinking about the purpose of this visit.
What could going to the bank accomplish?
Collateral. Assets. Or perhaps… a transfer of some trust.
Her father needed a huge sum to plug the hole Mycroft had torn open.
And the bank was the only choice.
As for her—well dressed, proper, flawless in demeanor—
She was the family's proof that House Morstan still possessed unimpeachable credit and dignity.
Mary took a small sip of tea.
It wasn't especially good.
But it was better than nothing.
She began to let her gaze wander, studying the lobby layout, the security, the people moving back and forth—killing time through observation.
Hurrying merchants.
Worried aristocratic ladies.
A few sharply dressed young men…
Every person was like a book flipped open—identity, purpose, emotions, all laid bare at a glance.
Mary's eyes drifted across the crowd, boredom creeping in—
Until her line of sight reached an ordinary service counter.
And then, abruptly, she froze.
A back.
Not particularly straight—slightly hunched, even—carrying a lazy, careless air.
A khaki trench coat that looked utterly out of place among the bank's sea of tailored suits.
But that familiar outline…
That perpetually indifferent stance…
Made Mary's heart skip a beat with no warning at all.
She sat up unconsciously.
Those pale-blue eyes—so unfocused from boredom just moments ago—snapped into clarity, as if light had flared within them.
If you can't forget something… sooner or later, it answers back.
....
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