Noon eventually arrived.

As usual, the Virellano family gathered for their customary meal, a tradition carried out with a certain solemnity that was unique to their household. The atmosphere was filled with the usual light chatter, sprinkled with trivial gossip and mundane remarks that helped smooth over the stiffness of formality.

Yet today's lunch carried a subtle difference. Edward himself, the head of the family, was present, and so was Aurielle, the eldest daughter. Both of them had decided not to leave for the office due to the issue that had emerged earlier in the morning, and thus they unexpectedly joined the table.

Fani, who had also been invited to the meal, quietly sat among them. Her eyes wandered to the long dining table, taking in the sight of everyone enjoying their lunch—everyone except one.

The absence of Al, once again, was impossible to ignore. Fani had already grown somewhat accustomed to his inconsistent presence. Sometimes he would show up for these family meals, and sometimes he would not. Still, even with that familiarity, she could not help but feel that something about his absence always left an odd aftertaste in the air.

It was not that Al had been excluded. In fact, for this particular lunch, he had been invited like everyone else. However, it was he himself who had declined the invitation. His reason was simple: he claimed to be occupied with something important in his room, and thus, he chose not to attend.

At the head of the table, Edward occasionally exchanged glances with his wife, Sandra. From the way their eyes met and the brief silence that followed, it was clear they were both quietly hoping their youngest son would appear and sit with them.

Is this his way of protesting? Edward wondered grimly.

Another subtle jab at us? Even when invited, he turns it down. Is he trying to show us that he can be perfectly fine on his own, that he does not need to be involved with the rest of us at all? The thought brought a bitter weight to his chest.

Both Edward and Sandra could not help but place a measure of blame on themselves. In moments like these—rare pockets of time when their demanding work did not consume every ounce of their attention—they were left with nothing but their own thoughts. And inevitably, those thoughts drifted back toward Al.

In the beginning, Edward had been the one who insisted that Al stay away from the dining table. The memory of that unpleasant incident, the strange odor that clung to the boy, had been too much for him to bear at the time.

Yet now, that memory had already begun to fade. The discomfort it once caused him no longer lingered, and the sharp sting of irritation had dulled.

But the absence of Al had already become a habit, something that settled into the family's rhythm as though it were normal. Day after day, it became easier to ignore, easier to dismiss. The blame for what had happened, however, had always been laid upon Al.

Edward exhaled softly, a weary sigh that carried the weight of unspoken regret. He forced himself to continue eating the food before him. The dishes were rich in flavor, heavy with spices, yet to his tongue they tasted oddly bland, stripped of their delight.

Across from him, Sandra lowered her head. She remained silent, trying to calm the restlessness within her heart. She had already spent enough of her emotions earlier that morning; she could not afford to break again now.

And so, in this way, the family lunch passed—a meal filled with fine dishes yet accompanied only by an aftertaste of bitterness and emptiness.

---

On the other side, Al had just finished a project of his own making. He now stood in the spacious family lounge, leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

His expression carried a faint trace of irritation—the kind of annoyance that came not from hard labor, but from the endless, suffocating protocols of an elite household that seemed to complicate even the simplest of things. To him, everything about the so-called "rules of nobility" felt like nothing but unnecessary frills.

Several minutes passed before the heavy wooden door at the far end of the corridor swung open. Edward Virellano, the head of the family, stepped in with calm strides. His eyes remained on the glowing screen of his tablet, flicking across various updates, ensuring that nothing urgent from the office required his immediate attention.

The moment Al saw him, he straightened from the wall, his posture relaxing slightly, though his face still carried that restless energy of someone who had been waiting too long.

"Father. Finally…" Al muttered, half a sigh, half a greeting.

Edward looked up, slightly surprised, but quickly softened his gaze.

"Oh, Al. Forgive me, I only just had the time. What is it you wanted from me? If there was something important, why didn't you just ask Harun to relay it? That way, I would have understood right away." His lips curved into a thin, polite smile.

But almost immediately, that faint smile faded, replaced by a trace of reproach.

"By the way… what exactly were you doing that kept you from joining the meal? Your mother was very much hoping you would be there."

Al scratched the back of his head, visibly annoyed.

"Through Harun? That's exactly what I don't get. Why would I need to talk to someone else just to talk to my father? If I want to speak to you, shouldn't I just speak to you directly?" His tone carried a blunt honesty.

"And besides..." he added, his eyes steady on Edward, "...this is something I feel I should tell you personally, as the one who holds the authority in this family."

Edward gave a slow nod, his face calm. To him, it was only natural that someone like Al, who had grown up outside the circles of high society, would fail to understand how an elite household functioned. The Virellano family, in particular, had always operated within structures of order and mediation.

"Is that so? Then you still see me as the authority of this family?" Edward asked with a touch of curiosity. Coming from Al—who so often seemed to argue and contradict—it was an unexpected admission.

He walked over and sank into the large, cushioned sofa. Al followed suit, sitting down on the adjacent seat not too far away.

"So then, what is this about?" Edward asked directly, his tone cutting straight to the point.

Al hesitated for only a moment before voicing his concern.

"I heard the building where I used to stay is going to be torn down and replaced with a warehouse. Is that true?"

Edward blinked, slightly taken aback by the question. Immediately, a thought crept into his mind.

Does he want to live there again? Even after we have already given him a room inside this mansion?

The memory carried with it a faint sense of unease and irony. Not long ago, David had nearly been granted a larger, special room on the fourth floor. And now… Al wants to live in that small building?

"It's true," Edward admitted slowly. "Why do you ask? Don't tell me you want that little shack rebuilt so you can live there again?"

"Not exactly, Father." Al shook his head lightly. "Listen. That warehouse you're planning to build—it's not exactly an important structure, right?"

Edward tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes, but he gave a short nod.

"In that case… how about letting me manage that area myself?" Al suggested calmly.

Edward frowned, genuinely puzzled. "What do you mean by that?"

Al let out a small sigh before explaining.

"If I may complain a little, the room I'm staying in now is far too noisy every morning. It's right next to where the family soldiers train, and the constant racket makes it hard for me to get any proper rest. Out there, though, it was quiet. Peaceful, even. So I thought… why not build my own place out there instead?"

Edward studied him carefully, his expression composed. The complaint was not unreasonable. In fact, it was almost… practical. A part of him wanted to insist that the noise was good, that it might force the boy to rise early like a disciplined soldier.

But another part admitted there was little harm in indulging this lazy son of his, especially since Al had gone three whole months without making a serious complaint despite the less-than-fair treatment he had received.

He leaned back, deliberating. If this is only about a room, then there are plenty of spaces inside the mansion that could be repurposed. Even the rooms on the fourth floor… but no. That wouldn't do. When David nearly received that floor, the others were already uncomfortable. If it were Al instead? Impossible.

For now, it was better to let Al speak. It was rare, after all, for them to have a calm discussion like this.

"So you want that small room rebuilt? And you plan to live there again?" Edward asked, making sure he understood correctly.

Al gave a small nod.

"More accurately, I want this." He pulled out a rolled-up sheet of paper and spread it across the table in front of his father.

Edward's eyes narrowed as he leaned in. What unfolded before him was not a crude sketch, but a detailed drawing—a blueprint that was polished enough to serve as a reference for a professional project.

"What is this? Did you make this yourself?" Edward asked, his gaze shifting between Al and the diagram.

Al answered casually, focusing more on his explanation than on the question.

"This is what I've been working on all morning, Father. It's why I skipped lunch."

He then walked Edward through the design. The building he envisioned was not a simple shed but a modestly spacious structure, something that resembled a minimalist home rather than just a side room.

"This is what I want to build there. Of course, if you don't approve, then I don't mind having it reduced to something small, like before," Al concluded, leaning back slightly.

Edward was momentarily stunned.

He traced his eyes over parts of the blueprint, quietly analyzing the lines, the measurements, and the proportions. For a boy only seventeen years of age, the level of detail was astonishing. What impressed him even more was the clarity with which Al explained each element.

It was not flawless by a professional standard, no. But nearly everything was there—calculations, formulas, lists of materials, estimated costs, required manpower, projected timelines. There were even considerations for the surrounding environment and choices of color palette noted down carefully. It was more than comprehensive; it was mature.

The building itself was trivial in Edward's eyes. He could easily fund a hundred of them if he wished. That was not what mattered.

What truly seized his mind was the question: How did his son acquire architectural skills of this level? He was no professional, but even at a glance, this far surpassed what most amateurs could produce. And to think, Al had done it in only a few hours that very morning. No wonder he had chosen to sacrifice a family meal for this.

"Did you really make this yourself?" Edward asked again, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of disbelief and awe.

Al blinked, slightly baffled that the same question was repeated. With a calm shrug, he simply nodded.

"Of course, Father. Who else would bother helping me with something this troublesome in this house?" he replied, his words carrying a faint sting of sarcasm.

Edward let out a quiet sigh, realizing that the jab was well-deserved. He had no one to blame but himself for asking such an unnecessary question.

"Haa... still, good work." His voice carried a trace of admiration that he did not bother to hide. As he continued examining the blueprint, a strange warmth spread through his chest—an unfamiliar swell of pride.

It felt as though, for the first time, his son had finally found something worth pursuing. A thought crossed his mind: perhaps this talent of Al's could even be nurtured further.

"And where exactly did you learn to do something like this? Don't tell me HIHS is teaching architectural design now?" Edward asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.

"No, Father. I didn't take any vocational classes there. Just think of it as something I picked up from... life experience," Al explained casually.

Edward leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. The answer sounded far too idealistic, yet at the same time, it felt strangely believable. In his mind, he began forming theories: perhaps Al had once worked on construction sites in his past, or at the very least observed them closely. Although his body didn't have the roughness or hardened look of a laborer, that didn't rule out the possibility.

Another idea occurred to him—maybe the boy had wandered near construction projects as a child and been fortunate enough to learn from professionals who took an interest in teaching him.

With Virellano blood running through his veins, it wouldn't be strange if he absorbed knowledge faster than others, much like his older siblings had excelled in their respective fields.

"I suppose your life really must have been quite harsh," Edward muttered softly, half to himself.

Then, after a moment of silence, he added, "By the way, graduation is coming soon. Do you plan to pursue university studies in architecture?" His tone carried a subtle eagerness, as though the idea had already begun to take root in his mind.

He thought of his other children—Aurielle in business, Sarah and Elena in the entertainment world, Vianna in martial arts and sports, Clarista buried in education and research, Lysha with her focus on law and social studies. David, with his versatile talents, would eventually have to pick a single path as well. Architecture, however, was a field none of them had claimed.

If Al were to step into that domain, it would be invaluable. The Virellano Group did plenty of work in construction-related ventures despite mining being their primary business. A son with architectural skill would not only add diversity but also strengthen their influence.

"I'm not sure yet, Father. I haven't really decided about university. But... what about this project?" Al returned the conversation to his true purpose, his gaze flicking toward the spread-out blueprint.

Edward smiled faintly, amused at his impatience.

"You really should start giving serious thought to college. Whatever you choose, I'll support you," he said, his tone gentle, carrying both encouragement and reassurance.

Al nodded but remained unsatisfied, his eyes betraying his eagerness for a more concrete answer about his proposed building. He glanced meaningfully at the rolled-out paper.

Edward caught that look and chuckled quietly. To him, Al's restless impatience was almost refreshing—a reminder that despite his sudden display of brilliance, he was still a seventeen-year-old boy.

Finally, Edward thought, this child has something he can proudly show the world.

"You haven't eaten yet, have you? Go on to the dining hall. As for this—" Edward tapped the blueprint lightly. "—I'll leave it in Harun's hands. He will oversee the details and accompany you in managing this project. I expect you to take it seriously." His voice was calm, yet the decision carried weight.

Al's shoulders relaxed, and he drew in a quiet, relieved breath.

With this, I'll be able to dig up that thing without raising suspicion, he thought happily.

"Thank you, Father," he said with rare firmness, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

Edward rolled up the blueprint and called out, "Harun."

Moments later, the steady, composed footsteps of the head butler echoed through the hall. The man entered with a polite bow.

"Change the warehouse construction plan," Edward ordered, handing over the document. "Do whatever this boy asks for the building. Inform the workers immediately."

Harun accepted the blueprint, curiosity flickering briefly in his eyes, though he gave no comment. Instead, he bowed respectfully. "Understood, Master Edward."

Al offered a subtle smile before rising to his feet. With a sincere word of thanks, he followed Harun out of the room.

Edward watched their retreating backs, his lips curving into a satisfied smile.

"In the end, he truly is a Virellano. Of course he carries the same brilliance as his siblings—even if he grew up outside this house," he murmured proudly to himself. Then, rising from his seat, he returned to his chambers.

---

Not long after, Edward stepped into his bedroom where Sandra was already waiting. He quietly sat down beside her, and with a tender gesture, wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Sandra didn't respond much, only lifting her still-reddened eyes to glance at him.

"You look oddly pleased. Didn't you just see Al? Usually you come back looking grim after speaking with him. What's with this sudden change?" she asked curiously, noting her husband's unusually positive expression.

Edward gave a small nod.

"You're right," he admitted with a faint chuckle. "But this time... that boy actually made me proud." His eyes glimmered with rare brightness.

The words piqued Sandra's interest immediately, her curiosity blending with a faint sense of relief.

"Proud?" she repeated softly.

Edward only nodded again, but instead of elaborating, he leaned back on the bed, choosing silence.

Sandra wanted to press for details, but no answer came. Still, she sensed that something good must have happened with her son—something significant enough to shift Edward's mood entirely. And that, in itself, was enough to ease the weight of the grim morning she had endured.

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