Frederick had not failed to see Arabella.

The moment she ran onto the helipad, Harold informed him that she was below, likely calling out his name.

"Sir, should we stop?" Harold asked, his voice thick with sympathy. He didn't know why, but this girl was truly endearing—sweet and obedient, unlike any of the high-society socialites he had ever met. Watching her jump and wave below, frantic like a small animal abandoned by its parents, Harold felt a pang of heartache. As a parent himself, he couldn't bear to see such a scene.

The girl had no idea that Frederick had already decided to leave her there. From this point on, their paths were meant to never cross again; the fairy-tale warmth of the previous night had been nothing more than the fleeting light of a single match.

Frederick's face remained a mask of indifference. He didn't even glance out the window, keeping his eyes fixed on the work emails on his tablet. "No. Keep flying".

"Sir..." Harold tried to plead once more.

"You aren't usually one to meddle. What's wrong with you today?" Frederick's tone turned cold, and Harold immediately fell silent. It was rare for the Master to show any outward emotion.

As the helicopter climbed higher, Frederick began to feel a sense of physical discomfort, a tightness in his chest that felt like oxygen deprivation—even though the cabin pressure and oxygen levels were optimal. He tried to focus on a French email, but a soft, faint calling echoed in his ears, whispering his name and clinging to him with a spoiled sweetness that made concentration impossible.

He couldn't explain what was happening to him. His mood and focus were sluggish. He finally switched off the tablet, removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes to rest. Yet, the illusory voices in his mind would not cease, denying him even a moment of peace.

The helicopter didn't return to the estate but flew instead to the Munich headquarters of Silver Crown.

Silver Crown was the most successful investment in the history of House Herheid. Forty years ago, Frederick's grandfather, Heinrich von Herheid, had acquired the Wall Street asset management firm for a billion dollars. After a series of legendary investments, it expanded rapidly across global capital markets. Today, it managed over four trillion euros in assets, holding shares in numerous leading global corporations.

Heinrich had skipped over his five children to hand this thriving empire directly to his eldest grandson, a move that had sparked immense speculation. With Silver Crown and Herheid Holdings as the family's twin trump cards, Frederick held half of the family's kingdom in his hands. Even his father, Walter, could do nothing to move him.

Because he had personally delivered Arabella to the JH Charity Club, the morning's executive meeting had been delayed by two hours. It was noon by the time Frederick emerged from the conference room. Harold followed him with a hesitant expression, clutching a phone as if he had just ended a call.

"Sir, news just came in from the club".

Frederick gave him a neutral, indifferent glance. Harold took the ambiguity as a prompt. "She is very sad. She didn't eat the cake and has hidden herself in her room". He watched Frederick's face closely, but the Master was merely adjusting his cuffs with practiced elegance, his expression calm.

Harold took a breath and added, "She said... that Frederick abandoned her".

The word "abandoned" felt absurdly out of place.

The elevator arrived with a chime. The Silver Crown headquarters had been renovated five years ago with a high-tech, cold aesthetic dominated by glass, metal, and mirrors. As the elevator doors slid open, the mirrored walls captured the momentary look of stunned vulnerability on Frederick's face—a look of sheer disarray that he couldn't hide.

Frederick saw his own reflection and felt a surge of ridicule. He didn't understand why a childish accusation could make him feel so exposed, as if he were undergoing a trial. He had arranged everything for her with meticulous care; he had done more than enough. She was just a "birdie," a minor incident in his life. Why did she have the power to keep affecting his emotions?.

He composed himself instantly, masking his thoughts as he stepped inside. "I'm going to the lab. You don't need to follow," he said, pressing the button for the B1 level and then the first floor for Harold.

"And lunch, sir?"

"Have Milo deliver it".

Milo was one of many robots in the 20,000-square-meter super-lab, a product of a secret weapons project with the U.S. military focused on industrial software and intelligent robotics. It was a fitting legacy; House Herheid had built its fortune on military industry and electrical technology.

When he reached the B1 level, Frederick scanned his iris at a three-meter-high silver metal door. The scanner chime was followed by a playful, electronically-processed boyish voice speaking Mandarin: "Welcome home, Frederick."

Inside, the space was a stark contrast to the Rococo opulence of the Herheid Estate. It was a minimalist void of white, silver, and deep blue—lonely as an island in the sea, or a spaceship in the void.

Frederick tossed his suit jacket onto the sofa. A perfectly cubic robot slid over, extended a mechanical fork to snatch the jacket, and hung it neatly on a rack before scanning Frederick with a blue light.

"Current temperature 37°C, heart rate 80, blood oxygen 99%. Height 191cm, weight 95kg, body fat 10%. Chest 112, waist 81, hips 98. Length... uh... measurement inaccurate in this state, length unknown. Lips rosy, skin elastic. Congratulations, sir, you are very healthy today. Please maintain this state!".

Frederick remained cold as he walked toward the refrigerator. The cube followed him closely, using a remote signal to pop the door open. "Hey, Frederick, what's wrong? Are you unhappy?".

Frederick pulled out a bottle of sparkling water. "Why do you ask?".

"You threw your clothes very carelessly today. You're in a bad mood. It's totally 'OOC'—out of character".

Frederick found the robot's evolving vocabulary increasingly baffling. "What exactly is my 'character'?".

The cube's OLED screens displayed a long ellipsis as it processed the question. "Your persona is: Elegant old-money heir, brilliant CEO, disciplined but secretly kinky German hottie, gentle but ruthless Italian gentleman, and an eight-pack 'male mommy' beloved by older sisters worldwide. Therefore, you cannot throw clothes. Let me hang them". It emphasized the last part: "Retracting my arms is exhausting, you know. It costs me 0.0001% of my battery!".

Frederick looked at the object—Oreo, a robot he had designed in his youth—with a touch of amusement. He wondered if his recent "training" methods were flawed. To improve Oreo's Mandarin, he had connected it to Chinese social media apps like TikTok and Xiaohongshu last month, but the robot had clearly brought back a lot of "messy" data.

Frederick patted Oreo's flat head gently. "If you keep learning things you shouldn't, I'll send you to the disposal unit or have you self-destruct at the military testing range".

Oreo immediately emitted a rigid, electronic sobbing sound. "Waaaaah!".

"Read the Old Testament," Frederick commanded.

Forced into the Master's faith, Oreo began a monotone recitation: "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep...".

After two minutes, the robot interrupted itself. "By the way, why are you really unhappy? You're so powerful; who would dare make you angry?".

Frederick didn't answer Oreo's blunt question. He was still thinking about a different, far more innocent accusation.

Abandoned.

He had abandoned her.