What she wanted most was for Vivian to come home and stay by her side.
"Let's wait and see."
Vivian lifted her head, her tone still calm and indifferent.
Even now, she still clearly remembered the scene five years ago, when Lynn Shea helped Grandma force her out.
It was drizzling that day.
Her mother stood at the doorway: "Vivian, you must leave. It's for your own good."
She didn't understand why her own mother would stand on Mrs. Prescott's side.
She didn't resent her mother as much as she used to.
But those wounds can't simply be forgotten just because she wants to forget them.
Lynn still wanted to persuade her, but when she looked up and saw several important guests entering, she had to let go of her daughter's hand and spoke softly in her ear.
"Mrs. Prescott is at least your grandmother in name. No matter how she treated you in the past, you have to offer incense, let a few tears fall. At the very least, you have to do what's proper."
As she spoke, she watched from the corner of her eye those guests dressed in dark suits by the door.
Lynn dared not take risks, and didn't dare to let her daughter make the slightest mistake at such a critical moment.
She knew Vivian was stubborn, and also knew she had little affection for the Prescott Family or for Mrs. Prescott.
In this circle, surface propriety is valued above all else, especially filial piety.
A child like Vivian, whose status is unique, if she behaved coldly and outsiders found out, they would only say she was ungrateful.
Lynn knew these unspoken rules well.
So she would rather her daughter feel slighted.
Vivian walked into the mourning hall and immediately saw Francis Prescott, softly calling, "Mr. Prescott."
The candlelight in the hall flickered, and the air was heavy with sandalwood incense.
A black-and-white photo hung in the center, Mrs. Prescott smiling gently.
Vivian's gaze passed through the crowd and lingered on the man in the black suit.
Francis Prescott was lowering his head, fixing the ribbon on a floral wreath.
He paused at the sound of her voice, then slowly turned around.
Her father had died when she was ten, her grandparents long gone—no one to care for her, so she was sent to the Prescott Family.
That year, she was still in fourth grade.
Her relatives all shirked the responsibility, none willing to raise her.
In the end, it was Francis Prescott, for Lynn Shea's sake, who reluctantly agreed to take her in.
This stepfather neither doted on her nor abused her.
He never scolded or beat her, nor would he deliberately make things hard.
But he never cared if she was cold or hungry either.
If anything, the way to describe it was probably "to not see."
Most times, he simply acted as if she did not exist.
Seeing her come in, Francis Prescott was stunned for a few seconds, then managed a faint smile.
"You're back."
"Mm. Here to offer incense to Grandma."
Vivian replied with utmost composure.
When she finished, she turned and walked toward the shrine.
"Good girl."
Vivian knelt on the cushion and offered a stick of incense, carefully and sincerely.
When it was time to grieve, a memory flashed suddenly in her mind.
The day she first arrived at the Prescott Family, Mrs. Prescott pulled her into her arms, stroked her hair, beaming, "Our little Vivian has such large earlobes—she's sure to be blessed one day."
It was the first time she met this "grandmother," so she felt a little awkward.
But as soon as Mrs. Prescott saw her, she opened her arms and gathered her close.
In that moment, she once thought she finally had a home.
A guest nearby, seeing her eyes redden, walked over and handed her a tissue, softly saying, "You're Lynn's daughter, aren't you? Haven't seen you in years. You must be back to bid a last farewell to Mrs. Prescott this time—so considerate of you."
She was a woman of about fifty, wearing a simple, elegant black cheongsam.
Vivian took the tissue, gently dabbed at her eyes, and said quietly, "Thank you."
"Five years gone by, you've grown into a real beauty."
Vivian started, blinking unconsciously.
She then looked up, studying the woman in front of her carefully.
Only then did she recall who this graceful lady was—Mrs. Sterling.
The Sterling Family of Torval—one of its most illustrious houses.
Generations of business, far-reaching connections, deep foundation—almost unparalleled.
In both politics and commerce, mention the Sterling Family and there would be only respect.
And Mrs. Sterling, as the matriarch, rarely appeared in public, always kept a low profile.
Vivian was about to utter a polite reply.
When she suddenly heard a voice from behind.
"Mom, it's time for us to go."
Her heart tightened, and she immediately turned her head.
No sooner had she shifted her gaze than she found herself looking into a pair of hazel brown eyes.
The man had striking, lively eyes, prominent brow bones, his gaze deep yet bright.
His face was sharply contoured, clean lines, a straight nose; there was a small mole under one nostril, an odd touch of wildness about him.
He wore a black shirt, sleeves carelessly rolled up, a jacket slung over one arm, shoulders broad and waist slender.
He projected both ease and undeniable privilege.
When his gaze slipped over her, it seemed careless, yet also as if he were secretly assessing her.
Vivian lowered her head, lashes trembling, unable to decide for a moment whether to greet him or not.
After all, the Sterling heir, Julian Sterling, was notorious for being cold and difficult.
She hesitated for a moment but ultimately chose silence.
Instead, Mrs. Sterling smiled at her.
She spoke gently: "Vivian, Julian and I will take our leave first. Take care of yourself."
"Yes. Safe travels."
Vivian replied softly.
She still did not look at Julian, just raised her head slightly, nodding politely to Mrs. Sterling.
Not until the two of them had walked some distance did Vivian let out a quiet sigh.
When the funeral was over, Lynn Shea, having taken care of everything, waited until the last guests had left before she finally found a moment free.
She walked over to Vivian and gently patted her shoulder.
"Come on, let me take you to the living room to sit for a bit. Don't just stand here by yourself."
The two of them walked toward the living room side by side.
The Serene Vista villa was immensely spacious.
Besides Francis Prescott and his family, Curtis Prescott also lived here.
He was the son of Mrs. Prescott's youngest son, a little older than her, steady by nature, rarely seen, but always staying here.
Mrs. Prescott had five children in all—three daughters and two sons.
The eldest daughter married abroad and rarely returned to China.
The second daughter was Vivian's mother, who had long since passed away.
The youngest daughter now lived in the east of the city, coming back sometimes to visit her mother.
Of the two sons, the elder, Francis Prescott, ran the family business and controlled the main affairs.
The younger, Hale Prescott, had studied abroad early on and now settled overseas, leaving only his son, Curtis Prescott, in Torval to look after family matters.
Curtis was her late-born son, cherished and raised with utmost care from childhood.
Entering with Lynn, Vivian immediately saw Curtis Prescott sitting on the sofa.
His head was bowed over his phone, long fingers moving swiftly across the screen.
Vivian's eyes dimmed slightly.
She was about to find a quiet corner to sit, but the corner of her eye suddenly caught sight of Zeke Prescott nearby.
Her body instantly stiffened; she quickly shifted aside, covering it smoothly, and called softly, "Big brother."
Zeke Prescott lounged with one leg crossed over the other; looking up from his phone, he cast her a perfunctory glance.
Vivian was long since used to it.