The Working Mother

Part 1

"It's fine," Philip managed at last, raising both palms in what he hoped was a calming gesture. A single drop of coffee oozed off his sleeve and splattered onto the tiles. "No harm done. Truly."

Behind him, Lydia's gaze seemed to drill into his back—likely worried he might catch pneumonia from wearing wet clothes. Bowed so low that her forehead nearly touched the floor, the young woman looked seconds away from tears. Staffers hovered at the periphery, exchanging anxious glances that said, Poor girl—she's doomed.

Then, almost as if recovering from a momentary shock, the entire office snapped back to life. Several employees rushed in—older women with sleeves rolled up, wide-eyed interns, even a layout chief with ink-blotched fingers. In seconds, they peeled the sodden documents off the floor, someone handed Lydia a rag to dab at Philip's coat, and the crisis was on its way to being resolved in a flurry of bustling chaos.

At last, Philip returned the damp pages to the unfortunate woman. She kept her head bowed, cheeks aflame, posture taut with fear. "I—I swear it won't happen again," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please, sir, don't fire me." The last words came out in a near-beg, as if one displeased frown from Philip might end her livelihood.

"Fired? For an accident?" He tried a reassuring chuckle. "If we fired everyone who spilled coffee, we'd have lost half the staff." He waved his dripping sleeve for effect.

A ripple of uncertain laughter coursed through the onlookers, who had clearly expected something far more severe. Sensing no explosion of anger, they exchanged glances of cautious relief. Lydia, arms folded, appeared braced for a shouting match—only to see Philip handling the situation calmly. A couple of staffers breathed audible sighs, and the rest drifted back to their tasks.

The woman slowly stood, still clutching her soggy documents, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of displeasure. Her face, flushed with humiliation, turned a deeper scarlet when her gaze fell on the embroidered coat she had ruined. "I—if you need me to pay for cleaning, please let me do it in installments. I don't have money right now…" Her voice cracked with desperation. "It's just— I have a daughter, she's only two, and bills keep mounting. I—I can't afford to lose this job."

A pang clenched Philip's chest as old memories welled up. He thought back to when he and Tara slogged through grueling workloads riddled with unfair politics. They were forced into uneasy alliances or branded as scapegoats for more powerful colleagues. Over time, Tara mastered those ruthless dynamics, climbing the corporate ladder but losing her warmth as she viewed everything through power and self-interest. Meanwhile, Philip had let his empathy slip away, numbed by so much duplicity—until his own firing shattered that indifference. This new life is my chance to fix at least part of it.

"It's only a coat," he said gently, letting compassion soften his voice. "Truly not worth losing any sleep over."

She blinked, visibly baffled. "I—I don't know how to repay this, sir," she managed. Her mother had warned her about trusting wealthy people, that their kindness might be a trap. Her father had been just such a man, or so she'd been told.

Philip inhaled quietly, aware of the entire floor holding its breath, waiting for his reaction. But demanding compensation was the last thing on his mind. "I'm not that sort of person," he said, surprising even himself with the earnest warmth in his tone. "You don't owe me anything."

He noticed how fatigue and fear etched themselves into her expression, deeper than this single mishap could explain. "Those dark circles… is it from caring for your daughter at night?" he asked softly. "You look worn out."

She startled, eyes widening as if he were too rich to notice such details. "I… well, yes," she admitted, voice small. "I can't afford childcare, so my neighbor watches her while I'm here. At night, I take care of her, and on weekends I watch both our kids, so I barely get any sleep."

A wave of empathy hit Philip. He recalled how he and Tara juggled bills and sleep schedules just to scrape by. He nodded. "That's a lot to carry on your shoulders."

She bit her lip, almost regretting what she had revealed. He's a businessman—maybe he'll use this against me. But Philip's sincerity disarmed her. It was nothing like what her mother's stories had led her to expect. Suddenly flustered, she bowed her head again. "I'm sorry, sir. I've probably said too much."

Lydia cleared her throat discreetly, catching Philip's eye. "Master Philip, we do have a meeting awaiting us," she reminded him in a composed tone that hinted he should be mindful of unwanted rumors.

Philip inclined his head toward Lydia, then turned back to the woman. In a smooth gesture, he pulled a business card from his coat pocket—thankfully, it had escaped the coffee's ruin. He pressed it into her free hand. "If you ever need something—childcare help or talking over your work schedule—contact me, all right? Don't hesitate."

Her cheeks burned even more, and for a heartbeat she simply stared at the card, disbelieving that a wealthy man would freely give out his personal contact. Then her fingers curled around it, clutching it to her chest like a precious relic. Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain everyone could hear.

"T-thank you, Master Philip," she whispered shakily. "I—this is more kindness than I've ever…" Tears pricked at her eyes. She bowed low again, the damp pages pressed to her chest.

Philip offered a soft, almost shy smile. "No need to thank me. Accidents happen. And do get some rest if you can."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but no words emerged. She simply watched as he turned, nudged gently by Lydia, and headed down the corridor. The staff, who had been watching cautiously, dispersed the instant Philip left, relieved that no dire punishment followed.

For a few seconds, Elizabeth lingered, staring at the business card while her heart pounded with disbelief, gratitude, and an odd warmth. He even noticed the dark circles under my eyes… how could someone of his rank possibly care?

With a squeak of embarrassment, she realized she was standing in the hallway, face still flushed. She hurried back to her proofreader's station, though her pulse refused to settle. It had been too long since she felt genuinely seen.

Meanwhile, Philip walked with Lydia toward the next office, coat still faintly damp. His mind buzzed with remnants of the encounter—Elizabeth's trembling voice, the shadows under her eyes, her deep fear. How many more people in this realm suffer the same fate? He touched the now-empty pocket where his business cards had been. That was my last one, but if it gives someone hope, it's worth it.

He glanced at Lydia, who kept her usual composure. She occasionally shot him sidelong glances, likely relieved he hadn't erupted in rage. Still, she was worried about gossip or misunderstandings. But all that seemed trivial in light of the vow Philip carried within: if he was to break free from the bleak destiny he once faced, he needed to become powerful and wealthy enough to remake the world, bit by bit. Only then could he help Elizabeth and countless others like her. For that, he needed to survive—including the threatened duel.

I won't stay apathetic this time, he thought, heart thudding with resolve. I will climb. And once I'm at the top, I'll make sure no one begs for mercy over a spilled mug of coffee again.

Suddenly, a playful voice breezed into his head:

"Well, well, look who's turning into a real knight in shining armor! I'm almost proud of you, Host," the System chimed in, her melodic voice echoing in his mind.

He nearly tripped on the corridor's uneven tile, forcing Lydia to sidestep with graceful speed. You're back to teasing me already? he thought.

"Teasing? This is genuine admiration. Helping a single mother you barely know—bold, kind, and just a bit risky. But you're on the right track, morally and strategically," the System answered without materializing.

Philip suppressed a wry grin, keeping his face neutral so no one would see him reacting to thin air. Strategically? he prompted, knowing she rarely praised without a follow-up.

"Indeed. Altruism is lovely, but remember—you've only just cleared the orchard debts. Your remaining funds are limited, so you must use them carefully. Without a proper business plan, your compassion will run you into the ground."

He inhaled slowly. I know. Elizabeth can't be the only one in this predicament.

"Exactly. That's why I said you're on the right track strategically. Your idea of an affordable daycare system is potentially brilliant. Offer employees free daycare as a benefit. It boosts their loyalty and turns them into walking advertisements. Other families will come knocking, and you can charge them modest fees under the pretext that they're not employees. Et voilà—an enterprise with moral satisfaction, profit, and prestige."

Philip pictured cozy daycare rooms with caring staff and plenty of toys—real infrastructure for families with nowhere else to turn. "You're right."

"Kindness is appealing, dear Host—especially if you market it well. You'll rebuild your finances and earn a saintly reputation in the hearts of working ladies like Elizabeth."

A faint heat rose to Philip's cheeks, and he nearly coughed. "They can think what they like," he muttered under his breath. "I just want to make a difference."

"Ah, just making a difference. So altruistic."

Her tone turned mischievous. In a swirl, the System materialized in a form only Philip could see: she appeared as Elizabeth but in an indecently small dress, a shrunken version of Elizabeth's attire. Buttons popped at the chest, and the skirt tore along her hip. Leaning forward at the waist, she created a graceful arch that highlighted her natural curves, voluptuous bosom, and delicate behind. Her hands were clasped and her face flushed, large watery eyes fixed on Philip. Taken completely by surprise, he felt his nose react instantly, and a floodgate was loosened in mere seconds.

Why did you do that? he demanded inwardly.

"Just helping you visualize your subconscious motivations better, Host," the System said with a sultry wink before vanishing.

Philip clamped a hand over his nose, trying to steady his breathing.

Lydia, noticing his sudden distress, handed him a fresh handkerchief. "Master Philip," she said softly, "your nose—are you all right?"

He coughed, turning aside to blot the bead of blood. "F-fine," he croaked, cursing the System's wicked sense of humor. "Thank you, Lydia. Must be the humidity… or something."

Behind her stoic mask, Lydia's eyes flickered with confusion, but she let it pass. "We should reach the boardroom soon," she said diplomatically. "We can't keep the executives waiting."

Part 2

Rosetta lingered in the lofty corridors of one of the Arussian Empire's imperial residences—an opulent stronghold whispered to predate the empire's founding. Massive columns of pale stone formed a seemingly endless colonnade, their upper arches laden with gilded designs of mythical creatures and legendary heroes. These silent figures looked on from above while soft mana-lamps, discreetly hidden within antique sconces, cast a warm glow over floors polished to a reflective gleam.

She stood a short distance from a handful of attendants, one hand on her hip, the other curled around a slim mana tab etched with glowing runes. A burgundy gown with delicate silver embroidery hugged her silhouette, blending Arussian courtly elegance with her Osgorotian roots. Waves of raven hair framed a face that appeared calm and regal, even if her heart roiled beneath the surface.

The corridor's hush enclosed her thoughts. She had been waiting for Prince Vlan to conclude an official meeting for what felt like hours, and impatience was only part of her discomfort. A hollowness had settled over her life lately, coiled like a serpent despite the grand receptions and political dealings she once took pride in orchestrating.

A flicker on the mana tab's screen caught her eye. Tapping it, she found a shocking photograph: Philip sprawled over some lady in what looked like a scandalous entanglement. Rosetta's heart clenched at the sight, a sudden spark of anger and shame coursing through her. She had believed her feelings for him long extinguished, yet here she stood, bristling at a mere snapshot.

Then she noticed something else: Philip looked… altered. Thinner around the shoulders yet heavier in the face, as though life had chipped away at that once-proud bearing. A wave of quiet dismay flooded her. Could time really erode a man so thoroughly?

She couldn't suppress a rueful sigh as her thoughts turned inward. Youth, she realized, was the spark that made all pursuits glow—love affairs, grand ambitions, fleeting delights. Steal away that vigor, and they became dreary, tinged with sadness. Her mind spiraled deeper, pained by how fast everything changed and how mercilessly youth slipped away.

Lost in thought, Rosetta never glanced beyond the photo to read the article's details. All she saw was a once-promising face, now seemingly weathered by misfortune—and the reminder that she, too, was just one twist of fate from a similar destiny.

She closed her eyes, recalling a time when Philip's soaring ambitions had inspired her. Before she had left him to shape the destiny of her homeland, she'd felt that same spark. Now, seeing him unravel so publicly stirred a painful knot in her heart, stronger than she had expected.

Yet a deeper secret prodded her conscience, one she seldom allowed herself to think about: her departure from Philip hadn't been driven only by the desire to serve her country. She had found a path to preserving the one thing she feared losing most—her youth—and it required leaving Philip.