Just as Charles was beginning to grasp the information swirling in his mind, a sudden knock echoed from his door.

Impatiently slipping on his shoes, he called out, "Who is it?"

In the past two days, the number of visitors had surpassed the total he’d received over the past few years combined.

The door swung open to reveal a waiter, who bowed respectfully. "Master Charles, your mother is here to see you!"

Charles’s gaze flickered past the bowing figure to the woman standing behind. She was delicate in appearance, with faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and slightly puffy eyelids. Despite her light makeup, it did little to mask the weariness etched into her features.

For a moment, Charles was taken aback. He didn’t share a close bond with his mother, and their interactions were limited, but seeing her in this state tugged at his heart. Even if her tears and sadness were not meant for him, he felt an unspoken connection.

Quickly regaining his composure, Charles nodded to the waiter, who promptly closed the door, understanding the constraints of the devil’s contract that loomed over them.

"Mother, why are you here so late?" he asked, striving to adopt a tone that conveyed respect. His mother was a traditional woman, steeped in the bloodline of the Clarksons, one of the eight red-blood families. She embodied the traits typical of the old nobility: coldness, impatience, and an unyielding focus on profit.

Mrs. West hesitated, her mouth opening as if to speak but struggling to find the words.

Sighing softly at her discomfort, Charles moved a small stool closer for her to sit. "It's alright, Mother. Just say what’s on your mind."

Her swollen eyes concealed a brightness reminiscent of pearls, the same eyes that had once shone with pride when his brother was still alive. This was why she was often referred to as the Pearl Lady of the West family. But now, those pearls had dimmed, and all that remained was a deep, endless sorrow.

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"Charles… Charles, congratulations. You’re going to be the fiancé of Miss Wilton," she finally managed, her voice hoarse and filled with an underlying distress.

Charles nodded gently, knowing this wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have.

"Can you speak to the Wilton family? Ask them to discuss with the Duke about bringing Jeff back? He is your brother!" Mrs. Pearl’s tone sharpened with urgency, as she grasped his shoulders like a desperate swimmer clinging to a lifeline.

But soon, she released him and sank back into the stool, her spirit deflated.

"Sorry, Charles… I just..."

Tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking her blouse.

Charles rubbed his shoulders where her hands had been and shook his head gently at her silent sobs. "Mother, you know I can't control the affairs of the Wilton family, nor can I change my father’s will."

He moved to the bedside table and picked up a handkerchief—a gift from her during his childhood, a time when she had treated him and his brother with equal affection. But since his brother had awakened with a blue blood concentration of 50%, all her love seemed to have shifted to that prodigy.

He handed her the handkerchief, its fabric soaked in memories, and gently patted her shoulder with his small hand. "It’s late; you should rest."

Mrs. West accepted the handkerchief, wiping her tears before tossing it into the trash can.

Charles’s heart sank as he watched her rise, her grace faltering as she approached the door.

"Just a moment here, Charles. You should rest too!" she urged.

He nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on her as she walked out of his room, closing the door with a quiet finality.

"Charles, do you hate me?" she suddenly asked, turning back with a mixture of apprehension and hope in her eyes.

Shaking his head, he met her gaze with calm determination. "How could I, Mother?"

She scrutinized his face, searching for truth in his words, and when she finally saw it, a deep sigh escaped her lips. With that, she closed the door completely behind her.

Outside, the moonlight bathed the room in a luminous glow, casting a milky red hue that transformed everything into a sacred vision—including the handkerchief resting in the trash can.

Charles approached the bin, crouching down to retrieve it. His hand hesitated midway, and a self-deprecating smile crossed his lips.

"How could it be, Mother?" he murmured to himself, feeling the weight of his unspoken words.