Chapter 511 Elspeth: Nicholas's Daughter 2
Octavius was already in a foul mood, and seeing Nicholas only made it worse—especially since Nicholas was carousing with prostitutes. A young, beautiful woman sat perched on Nicholas's lap, cooing sweetly as she urged him to drink, while Nicholas played the charming rake with obvious relish.
The sight made Octavius's blood boil. Here was the child's father living it up in a brothel while his former wife was at home changing diapers and contemplating marriage to some balding, fifty-something man just to secure Elspeth's future.
In a surge of rage, Octavius struck. Though scholarly by nature, his tall, lean frame was deceptively strong, and he easily overpowered Nicholas, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall. His voice carried a chilling edge: "What excellent timing you have! Your lover is dead, leaving behind an orphaned child, and here you are drinking with whores."
Lover. Orphaned child.
Nicholas's mind reeled in confusion. It took him several moments to realize Octavius was talking about Azalea—that she had died but left behind a child. But she had told him she'd terminated the pregnancy.
Surrounded by the decadent atmosphere of wine, women, and wealth, Nicholas felt his eyes burn with unshed tears. His refined features contorted with anguish as he stared at Octavius, his voice breaking, "What did you say? What child are you talking about?"
Octavius let out a cold laugh. "Now you're asking about the child? Where was this concern when you were busy screwing her?
"Since you want to know, I'll tell you everything. Azalea didn't just give birth to your child—she saved your precious son's life with the baby's cord blood. She traveled thousands of miles back to Evergreen City to give birth, all to save your boy's life. And how did you repay her? You resented her deception, tortured her relentlessly. Nicholas, we're both men here—I know exactly what you did. You played puppet master, letting your wife humiliate and degrade Azalea while you fucked her and called her a whore.
"Nicholas, you disgust me."
Octavius's words hit their mark with devastating precision.
Nicholas stood frozen, overwhelmed by the flood of revelations. The child was alive. Azalea had used their baby's cord blood to save Isaac. Isaac owed his life to Azalea, yet Nicholas had been the one to destroy her.
He remembered that Christmas Eve—she hadn't wanted to meet him, had wanted to cut ties completely and probably return home with their child. But he had lured her with sweet words, promising they could spend Christmas Eve together, saying they'd never had a proper meal in daylight like a real couple.
She had come full of hope, wearing that red dress because he'd once told her she looked beautiful in red.
That night, she had taken off the red dress.
She would never wear it again.
Because she was dead.
Unable to process this reality, Nicholas collapsed to the floor.
Night fell silent around him. The club's patrons had long since departed, and even Octavius had vanished, leaving behind only the lingering scent of debauchery in the empty space. The wind seemed to carry ghostly whispers—
"Mr. Moore... I love you.
I want to be with you.
Always."
When Nicholas finally came to his senses, tears streamed down his face.
He had no memory of how he'd gotten up or found himself pounding frantically on the ornate black gates of the Windsor family estate in the dead of night, screaming Oliver's name. The security guard didn't recognize the disheveled figure and cursed him as a mad dog, threatening to call the police.
Just then, a tall figure emerged from the darkness—Oliver, clearly roused from sleep, wearing black silk pajamas under a long black down coat. Despite the bitter cold, he held a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers.
The porch light cast Oliver in sharp relief, making Nicholas's broken state all the more apparent.
Nicholas's lips trembled as he looked at Oliver. "Where is Azalea?"
Oliver's laugh was arctic. "Buried."
Buried.
Nicholas's eyes blazed with anguish. The absurdity wasn't lost on him—he had driven her to her death, yet now he was the one drowning in regret.
Oliver took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling pale blue smoke that hung in the lamplight before continuing, "You're not just here about her, are you? If you're asking about the child, we gave her away."
Nicholas staggered backward. "Gave her away?"
Oliver's tone was deliberately cruel: "What did you expect? That Sarah and I would raise her and torture ourselves daily? Nicholas, spare me this heartbroken, repentant act. You showed no mercy when you were systematically destroying Azalea. What is this—guilt finally catching up with you? Afraid she'll haunt your dreams?"
Nicholas's throat worked convulsively. Finally, his voice came out as a rasp: "That's my child."
"Your child?" Oliver stepped closer, his voice dripping with contempt. "What exactly can you offer her? The shame of being a bastard? A miserable childhood? Your wife Hestia would take out all her rage on that innocent child.
"You can't protect anyone except yourself.
"You don't deserve that child."
Nicholas's face turned ashen. He let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, "You're right! I don't deserve a child, and I sure as hell don't deserve to be called 'Daddy.' I killed Azalea with my own hands! Oliver, you love beating people up—come on, hit me! Beat me to death!"
"You're insane."
Oliver reached into his coat pocket and withdrew something. Even this proud man couldn't help but caress it gently, as if touching a precious memory, before handing Nicholas an envelope.
"This is the key to Azalea's house, and the address," Oliver said, his voice thick with emotion. "I think when she bought that place, she was dreaming of a life with you and your beautiful child."
For once, Oliver's voice cracked. Azalea's death weighed on his conscience too.
He tilted his head back, his voice barely above a whisper: "Nicholas, a man of your background will never lack for women's adoration, but I guarantee you that Azalea's love was the most humble and genuine you'll ever receive."
"In her heart, she had built a home for both of you."
Nicholas took the envelope with shaking hands. Inside was an antique brass key and a piece of white paper with an address.
Oceancrest City—the place he had once mentioned as his favorite.
She had made their home in Oceancrest City.
The revelation hit Nicholas like a physical blow. Blood surged in his chest, and he couldn't hold it back—crimson spilled from his lips.
The bright red blood spilling from Nicholas's lips was the same color as Azalea's final love letter—written with her very life, confessing: she loved Mr. Moore and wanted to be with him forever.