Perhaps it was from making dicinal als for Laura Quinn a few tis and gaining so insights, plus with all the chores in the villa handled by others, Uncle Dexter often found himself idly watching them.
That’s why he was quite attentive to this matter, even overseeing the flas himself, never relying on anyone else.
"Young Madam, don’t worry, I will watch Miss Vera White drink the dicine every day," Uncle Dexter said cheerfully as he carefully kept the prescription safe, then told Ann Vaughn, "By the way, the young master asked you to co to the study once you return."
"Okay, I will,"
Rembering what Cyrus Hawthorne had said during the day, Ann Vaughn couldn’t help but feel a little excited, eager to find out what he intended to give her.
The ring was definitely off the table.
Flowers were also unlikely.
Could he really be packaging himself as a gift for her?
Sigh, she turned colors.
While imagining wild thoughts, Ann Vaughn walked to the door of the study on the third floor, found it slightly ajar, and pushed it open to enter.
"Quinn?"
Ann Vaughn looked inside and imdiately saw the man sitting behind the desk, focused and working, with cold, stern features displaying mature and steady male charm.
Cyrus Hawthorne slightly raised his head, accurately capturing her figure, with his icy gaze on the company’s quarterly report on the computer gradually softening, "Co here."
"Are you going to unveil the mystery of that item for ?" Upon hearing this, Ann Vaughn excitedly rubbed her hands together and rushed to him, opening her palms, "Quickly show ."
Seeing her eager expression, Cyrus Hawthorne chuckled softly, then rose from his seat and sat her down.
"Wait for ,"
As soon as those words fell, he turned and walked towards the resting room inside.
Ann Vaughn sat in the wide and comfortable chair, her toes touching the ground, leisurely rocking the chair, happily waiting for Cyrus Hawthorne to bring out a surprise.
However, she quickly found herself unable to laugh.
"This is part of your mother’s relics," Cyrus Hawthorne placed a seemingly old and faded rectangular box on the desk, his voice deep as he spoke to Ann Vaughn, "It’s ant for you."
Shuhua Vaughn’s... relics?
Ann Vaughn’s eyes glimred, looking at the box that bore no resemblance to its original appearance, her face puzzled, "My mother’s belongings?"
"Yes,"
"How did you find these things?" Initially slumping lazily in the chair, Ann Vaughn imdiately straightened up, cautiously touching the edges of the box, "Sherry told that once my mother passed away, Stanley Sheridan burned all her belongings."
Not even a photo remained.
Cyrus Hawthorne’s thin lips curled slightly into a smile as he picked up the gloves on the table and put them on her, "Want to open it and have a look?"
"Yes!" Ann Vaughn nodded rigorously, stretching her hands to make a poised movent, then opened the box.
The lock on the box had long since deteriorated, requiring no key to open; a gentle twist broke it off.
The contents inside were clearly visible—
A few dresses popular in those years, several books detailing peculiar tales, so scrap paper and pens, and a diary in a waterproof compartnt.
Aside from the diary, the rest had been soaked beyond recognition by the Dyrrhis River’s water.
Ann Vaughn picked up one of the books for a glance, slightly surprised, "I heard from my uncle that my mother’s temperant was gentle, surprised she liked reading these types of books."
After speaking, she placed the book aside and picked up the diary.
Thanks to the waterproof compartnt’s protection, this diary, though its pages were sowhat yellowed, still had legible handwriting.
The handwriting matched the description Ian Vaughn gave of Shuhua Vaughn—graceful and gentle.
The first few entries were about daily mundane matters, like Eli Sheridan once again making a bunch of kids cry at kindergarten and being called a parent, or Stanley Sheridan attempting to cook and ended up blowing up the kitchen...
Then to the next entry, separated by nearly three months from the previous.
[It really loves to make trouble; once born, it will surely be a lively, energetic child. If only it were a girl... Dear child, it’s not that your mother dislikes you, but you know, your older brother is already quite the rascal...]
Reading this, Ann Vaughn giggled, surprised her brother was such a headache as a child, completely unexpected.
Continuing to read, was an entry a month apart.
[Stanley seems more fond of sons, often saying only a son can bear the future burden of the Sheridan family, but why can’t I love a little princess? I say this child is a princess, then it surely is!]
[If it truly is a daughter, her na must have ’Ann’ in it. May her life be peaceful and joyous, all smooth and carefree.]
Ann Vaughn’s eyes gradually glead with warmth, couldn’t resist gently touching those words, internally speaking, Your expectations have indeed been realized.
Can you see it?
Calmly standing by her side, Cyrus Hawthorne noticed her gentle expression, briefly smiled, and quietly left her side.
Ann Vaughn didn’t realize he’d suddenly left, flipping to the next page of the diary.
A starkly piercing line abruptly entered her sight, instantly stabbing her eyes.
[I don’t want a daughter, this child absolutely cannot be a daughter.]
[What’s good about daughters.]
[I am willing to exchange my life, just for this child not to be a daughter.]
Flipping nearly ten pages, the diary contained identical content throughout.
Whether it was desperate praying or anxious turmoil, the subsequent writing lost its neatness, a disorder akin to its owner’s frantic state.
Ann Vaughn’s breath caught, and the warmth welling in her eyes earlier suddenly and unpreparedly fell from the corner, dripping silently on soft fabric.
Aside from repeatedly expressing her reluctance for a daughter, Shuhua Vaughn wrote nothing else.
If not for the handwriting being the sa, Ann Vaughn might have thought the diary had been penned by soone else halfway through.
But it wasn’t.
It was just... Shuhua Vaughn suddenly realized daughters might not be as ideal, incapable of inheriting the family business and standing alone, thus lost anticipation for a daughter’s arrival.
So she was an unexpected existence.
When Cyrus Hawthorne returned to the study holding a stack of docunts, he saw Ann Vaughn staring blankly ahead, with eyes red.
His brows furrowed slightly, indistinctly, and he casually placed the docunts on the desk, bent to cradle Ann Vaughn’s stunned face, and noticed so transparent marks on her cheeks.
"Stop reading," Cyrus Hawthorne’s brows furrowed tighter as he closed the diary and set it aside.
His purpose for having Julian Ford go through the trials to retrieve these items wasn’t to make her cry.
If they couldn’t bring her joy, then such items lost their worth.
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