The winter of 1923.
Heavy snow blanketed the ground.
Outside the gates of the North Warlord’s mansion.
“This is my girl. I was hoping the Warlord might consider her for a child bride,” Benjamin Harding uttered with a flattering smile.
Rumor had it that the Warlord’s five-year-old son, raised in luxury all his life, was now gravely ill. They’d been looking for a young girl to lift his luck through marriage but hadn’t found the right one after much searching. Benjamin and his girl were here to try their chances.
The gatekeeper glanced at the child in his arms, who was on the verge of falling asleep, then softened his tone. “Wait here. I’ll go inform the steward.”
Not long after, the steward emerged from within. “This child is yours?”
Benjamin nodded quickly. “She’s mine. You can ask around if you don’t believe me.”
The steward hesitated briefly. “Come inside.”
Cradling the sleepy child carefully, Benjamin followed the steward through the mansion’s gates.
By then, the snow had stopped. The rare blue of the sky peeked through, and a few rays of sunlight landed on the child in Benjamin’s arms.
Richie Sinclair stood tall in his dark military uniform, outlining his firm physique. His cold expression and penetrating gaze carried an air of authority, as though he could see through the world’s secrets."Commander, do you think this little girl might be suitable as the young master's wife?" The steward approached Richie Sinclair with a respectful tone.
Richie lifted his gaze, taking a long look at the child cradled in Benjamin Harding's arms. Her tattered cotton jacket was so worn that the stuffing peeked out in places. Her skin had a sallow tint, but her features were delicate enough.
"Date of birth and eight characters," Richie said flatly, his eyes growing sharp as they settled on Benjamin.
Benjamin lowered his head, feeling the weight of that gaze, stammering when trying to answer. "I... I... I don't remember."
At that moment, the child in his arms stirred slightly, her tiny fingers twitching.
Richie squinted and added coldly, "If she's truly your child, how come you don’t even know her birth details? I don’t take in trafficked children here."
With that, Richie picked up his pistol, loaded it, and aimed directly at Benjamin.
Terrified, Benjamin dropped to his knees at once. "Commander, please! She’s my child, I swear! It's just that… just that…"
"Just what?" Richie pressed, waiting for him to finish.
Suddenly, the little girl rubbed her eyes, her voice soft and lazy as she murmured, "Uncle, where is this place?"
Benjamin's whole face turned pale. He looked like he wanted to gag her but was too scared to move under Richie's watchful eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
The child turned her gaze curiously around the room. "Where’s Papa? And Mama?"
Richie’s eyes shifted to the now fully-awake little one. There was something heart-wrenching about how small and helpless she seemed while asleep. But now, with those bright, lively eyes looking around, she seemed altogether captivating."She's not your child, and you dare lie to me." Richie Sinclair’s hand tightened around the gun, the safety click loud in the tense silence.
"Please, General! Have mercy! She was taken in by my third brother and his wife—they found her, but she's lived in our home for three years now," Benjamin Harding pleaded as he knelt down, rapidly bowing his head in desperation. He didn’t dare waste a single second explaining, fearing the bullets might resolve the misunderstanding before he could.
Richie’s gaze drifted to the little girl standing silently. "Where are her parents?"
"They're...gone. Dead. W-We couldn't afford to keep her, so... so I thought of bringing her here, to you," Benjamin stammered, his words shaking under the weight of the situation.
Richie moved closer to the child, squatting down to her level. "What's your name?"
To his surprise, his voice softened all on its own when he spoke to her.
“Lillian,” she answered, her tone an obedient calm, though her hesitant gaze betrayed confusion about the adults' exchange. Her small voice followed as her big eyes blinked uncertainly, “Uncle, what does ‘dead’ mean?”
Without hesitation, Richie picked her up, alarmed by how light she felt. “It means... they’ve gone somewhere far away.”
Her head dipped lower, her watery eyes meeting the ground. "Did they not want me anymore? Why wouldn’t they take me with them?"
As Richie noticed her reddening eyes and the tears forming in those wide, innocent pupils, a twinge of pain tugged at his chest. He reached out, his large hand gently brushing over her head, trying to comfort her without words."Too far away, they said. They were worried you'd suffer. Lillian, would you like to stay here, at the Sinclair residence?"
"From now on, you're my daughter, and I'm your father."
Lillian blinked, a little unsure. "Will I go hungry?"
Richie Sinclair chuckled, shaking his head. "No, you won't."
Her eyes lit up at his words. "Will I be cold?"
"Not at all." Richie, with a rare softness in his tone, reassured her.
Hearing that, a big smile spread across Lillian's face. She wouldn't have to shiver through the nights holding onto her mother anymore. She nodded eagerly, her little head bobbing up and down. "Lillian wants to stay!"
Richie looked pleased with her response. He glanced at his butler. "Give him ten silver dollars. From now on, she's no longer part of the Harding family. If they ever dare show up here again, shoot them on sight."
With that, he scooped Lillian up in his arms. "Let's go meet my son."
He grabbed a coat nearby and wrapped it around her small frame, striding briskly toward his son's room.
"Go get some clothes ready for the young lady," he ordered the butler.
"At once, sir," the butler responded, bowing. He didn't waste any time and had Benjamin Harding removed from the premises.
Amadeus Sinclair was the child of Richie’s late wife, who had tragically passed away from complications shortly after his birth. The child had always been weak, getting seriously ill at the slightest hint of neglect. Over the years, the Sinclair estate had spent a fortune trying to nurse him back to health, but nothing seemed to work. This winter, his condition worsened significantly, and despite countless doctors’ efforts, there was no progress—they all advised Richie Sinclair to prepare for the worst.
Eventually, the steward suggested finding him a bride to “ward off the bad luck.” Richie wasn’t the sort to believe in superstitions, but this boy was his only child with Grace Vaughn—he couldn’t simply give up on him.
Lillian stood next to the wrought-iron bed, staring at the boy. His sharp features were delicate, his skin so pale it was almost translucent. His sunken eyes and ashen lips made him look like he was teetering on the edge of life, his weak breaths barely audible, as if he might stop altogether any second.
“Daddy, is this my older brother?” she asked softly, her voice trembling as though afraid she might disturb him.
Richie had taken a seat by the bed, gently brushing aside the stray locks on Amadeus’s forehead. “Yes, he’s your brother now, Lillian.”
Lillian leaned against the bed frame, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Brother, I’m Lillian.”
Seeing there was no response, she glanced nervously at Richie. “Daddy, why isn’t he talking to me?”
“He’s just too tired.” Richie looked down at Amadeus’s frail little face, his heart aching deeply.
Lillian reached out and held Amadeus’s hand. “Brother, once you’re well-rested, come play with Lillian, okay?” Richie Sinclair had already prepared himself for the worst. If Amadeus really couldn’t pull through, he would make sure to raise Lillian as his own daughter, ensuring she’d find a good husband in the future.
But then, out of nowhere, Amadeus’s colorless cheeks turned a bit rosier, his breathing grew stronger, and his hand began to firmly close around hers.
His long lashes trembled slightly before he slowly opened his eyes, scanning the room in confusion.
“Papa, Brother woke up!” Lillian turned her head excitedly, smiling as she called out to Richie.
Richie, still lost in thought with his head down, froze at the sound of her cheerful voice. He immediately looked up, and there was his son, lying in bed, awake and staring back at him.
“Papa," Amadeus whispered weakly.
“Quick! Get the doctor and the physician for me right now!” Richie shouted urgently to the servants outside.
The servants scrambled, practically tripping over themselves to avoid angering the stern Commander.
“How are you feeling, Amadeus?” Richie’s voice trembled, cautious as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile hope blooming in the room.
