CEO loves me with all his soul.-Chapter 134. The End Game P-1

Ethan closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Adrian stood near the bed, brushing Seraphina’s soft silver-blond hair as she drifted to sleep in her crib. Aurelius was already nestled next to his sister, snoring gently with his little fist pressed under his chin.

Ethan waited, watching the way Adrian’s fingers moved—tender, calm, unhurried.

Once Adrian was sure the twins were asleep, he finally turned toward Ethan.

Ethan’s face was unreadable at first, but his eyes—those piercing steel-gray eyes—held a glint of protectiveness, even fury, still burning from the confrontation with Lady Sachel.

"I’ll let you decide," Ethan said softly, walking across the room and stopping in front of him. "What happens to her."

Adrian blinked, slightly confused.

"To who?"

Ethan’s voice was low. "Lady Sachel. I meant what I said downstairs. You can decide her punishment."

Adrian looked away for a moment, toward the open balcony, the sky beyond layered in hues of midnight blue and ash. The moon was partially visible—faint, veiled behind clouds. freēnovelkiss.com

Then, slowly, Adrian shook his head.

"There’s no need for that."

Ethan frowned. "You’re serious?"

Adrian nodded. "I never... hated her."

A pause.

"I mean," Adrian added, "there were times I disliked her. Deeply. But hate? No. Not even after everything."

Ethan took a step closer. "She forced you to divorce me."

Adrian smiled, tired but honest. "Matthew helped us fake the divorce papers. You know that. We were never really apart. Not where it mattered."

Ethan searched his face, trying to understand. "But she made your life hell, Adrian. She helped them pick you for me while I was comatose. She treated you like a pawn—used you."

Adrian’s eyes turned more somber. "True. But she didn’t start it alone."

He leaned against the edge of the bed, arms crossed.

"My father," Adrian said quietly, "Wuner Hudel... He was greedy. Ruthless. I know what kind of man he was. If she made the deal, he was the one who shook her hand and gripped tighter. He sold me out, not just to her, but to the entire council. I was just a bargaining chip for him, a way to climb the ladder."

Ethan’s jaw clenched at the thought of Hudel, but he stayed silent.

"What else could she have done in that situation?" Adrian continued. "She was being crushed by her own past, her own guilt, and the pressure of a family legacy she didn’t belong to. She was never the real wife of your father in his heart. And... she lost everything. I see that now."

"You’re defending her," Ethan said, his voice unreadable.

Adrian gave a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. "No. I’m just not condemning her."

Ethan sat down beside him on the bed. He looked tired now, his usual sharp presence dulled with the emotion of the day.

"She didn’t hurt me the most," Ethan admitted. "She hurt Leclair."

Adrian’s expression turned more serious.

"I already knew," Ethan murmured, voice so low it almost vanished between them. "About my birth. About how I came to the Levistis family. Leclair told me everything, years ago. About our father bringing me back and adopting both of us because of guilt, or pride, or maybe both."

He looked at Adrian, then at the cradle where the twins slept.

"I don’t hate her for that," Ethan said finally. "Not for her past. But for what she did to Leclair? That’s harder to forgive. She tried to ruin his company. She turned her back on him when he needed her most. Just because he married Augustin."

Adrian nodded. "I understand. But... I think Leclair has already punished her more than we ever could. By surviving. By being successful. By being happy."

Ethan chuckled faintly. "You sound like Leclair when he lectures me."

"That’s probably because I’ve spent too much time with Augustin."

They both laughed, the tension in the room thinning like a dissipating fog.

After a pause, Adrian said softly, "You know... I think what hurts most isn’t what she did. It’s what she could’ve done and chose not to. She could have protected us. Could have stood up against the Elders. Could have said, ’No, don’t throw this boy into a political marriage with a comatose heir.’"

He sighed. "But she didn’t."

"Because she wanted something from it," Ethan added bitterly.

"Maybe. Or maybe she just thought it would make her matter again."

Ethan turned toward him fully, reaching for his hand. "Do you regret it?"

Adrian looked at him, his fingers threading into Ethan’s automatically.

"No," he said without hesitation. "Because I got you. And we got them—" he nodded toward the cradle, "—together."

Ethan kissed the back of Adrian’s hand, then leaned his forehead against it.

"I’ll talk to Leclair tomorrow," he said. "We’ll decide what to do about her. But for now, let’s just... be here. With them. With you."

Adrian smiled faintly. "That’s all I want."

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the sound of Seraphina’s soft cooing and the faint hum of the night beyond the windows.

-

The scent of bergamot and old cedarwood—Leclair’s favorite oil—still lingered in the air. The room was dim, lit only by a reading lamp on the nightstand, casting soft golden halos across the pale walls and the creases on the bed sheets.

Augustin lay beside him in bed, curled slightly on his side, his eyes not on the book in his lap, but on Leclair, who was sitting upright, his black hair slightly tousled, his black eyes sharp but distant.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was familiar. Like a pause between movements in a symphony they’d composed together for years.

"Leclair," Augustin finally said, voice soft and unsure, "do you... regret it?"

Leclair blinked, turning his head slowly toward him.

"Regret?" he echoed, though he already knew what Augustin meant. His voice was calm, as always—but something coiled tightly beneath it, like a violin string about to snap.

"Being her son," Augustin clarified gently. "Lady Sachel."

There was no hesitation. Only a moment of quiet, followed by the flicker of something darker in Leclair’s eyes.

A smile tugged at Leclair’s lips, but it wasn’t a kind one. It was sharp, sarcastic, as if aimed inward.

"Of course I regret it," he said, tone silk-wrapped steel. "What else am I supposed to say, Augustin? That it made me stronger? That I learned to overcome?"

Augustin didn’t answer. He only watched.

"She didn never loved me," Leclair continued, his voice low, dry. "Not really. She raised me out of duty—out of political necessity. I was a decoration. A placeholder. A symbol for her to say, ’Look, I can be a mother too.’ But sincerity? Affection?"

He laughed bitterly. "That was for Ethan. Always Ethan. Even though he wasn’t hers."

Augustin reached out and gently took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

"You don’t have to pretend with me," Augustin said. "Whatever you feel... you’re allowed to feel it."

Leclair looked at their hands, then up at Augustin’s face. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed and leaned back against the headboard, eyes drifting upward.

"It’s not just that she didn’t love me," Leclair said finally. "It’s that she actively resented me. The older I got, the more I reminded her of what she wasn’t. She saw Ethan thrive. Me take over Father’s company. And all the while, her son—her real son—was out there somewhere, left behind like unwanted trash by the very man she gave herself to."

Augustin nodded quietly. His thumb brushed gently over Leclair’s knuckles.

"I’ll be with you," he said. "No matter what you want to do. If you want her gone, I’ll help you erase her from everything. If you want to speak with her, forgive her, spit at her—whatever you need. I’ll be there."

Leclair turned to him, eyes softer now but still stormy.

"It doesn’t matter anymore," he said, shaking his head. "What’s done is done. She has no power. No company. No allies. Not even her son respects her. She’s alone now. She’s learned her lesson."

He grew quiet. Too quiet.

His gaze dropped, shoulders relaxing but not with peace. With resignation.

"There were moments," he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper, "when I thought she could change. When I was a child, she used to brush my hair—softly. Whisper to me when I had nightmares. I remember that. But then..."

He swallowed hard.

"Then I remember the beatings. The cruel words. When she found out I was in love with you, she called it filth. Said I was throwing away the family name. Said I was no son of hers."

Augustin said nothing—only shifted closer and rested his head against Leclair’s shoulder.

"She tried to tear you away from me," Leclair continued. "Sabotaged the company. Tried to paint me as unfit. Told the board I was emotionally unstable. Do you remember that?"

Augustin’s voice was soft. "I do. But I also remember how we stood together. How you didn’t let her break us."

A ghost of a smile touched Leclair’s lips. He leaned his head against Augustin’s, eyes closing briefly.

"She didn’t win," he whispered. "But sometimes... I wish Father had lived long enough to see what she became. I wish I could have told him the truth. About her. About what she did."

Augustin lifted his head.

"You loved him, didn’t you?"

Leclair’s eyes opened, glossy in the low light. He nodded.

"I did. He wasn’t always kind. But he was fair. He gave me everything I have now. And even if he never said it outright... I think he saw her for what she was. That’s why he trusted me with the company instead of her."

"You think he knew?"

"I think he suspected. But he chose silence. And silence... cost us all."

Augustin pulled the blanket over both their legs and shifted closer. "Then let’s not be silent anymore."

Leclair turned to him.

"Let’s make sure no one else in this family suffers in silence," Augustin continued. "Not Ethan. Not Adrian. Not the twins. Not our future."

Leclair stared at him—this warm, infuriating, endlessly loyal man—and suddenly the tension drained from his shoulders like sand slipping from cupped hands.

"I don’t deserve you," he murmured.

Augustin scoffed. "That’s nonsense. You deserve better. You just settled for me."

Leclair chuckled under his breath, and for a moment, the darkness lifted.

Outside, the moon had finally emerged from behind the clouds. Its light spilled across the floor, across the bed, across their joined hands.

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