Ignatius Leclair didn't like children, especially his half-brother. Over the past couple of days, whenever he saw Delphine Carter, he observed that this woman was skilled at glossing over conflicts. She was repressed and displayed self-destructive tendencies. Previously, she had only played the role of someone with a dual personality and had gotten stuck in a gray emotional state she couldn't escape from.
Ignatius took it upon himself to forcibly drag her out of it over the course of two days and nights. With no time to spare and no room for indulgence in her own melancholy, the high-pressure tactics had done their part. Now it was time for a softer approach.
In this world, Delphine's most cherished person was likely the little one standing right in front of her.
Ignatius watched coldly, his lips curling into a sneer. This pair—one big and one small—neither of them had practical use. The big one might look good, but that was about it. The small one was even less useful.
