Charles knew their father didn't like Irene.

He could only try his best to make up for the twenty-plus years he had missed in their previous life.

Irene was like a soft cotton doll. She seemed to never hold a grudge for his coldness in those earlier years, always cheerfully calling him brother, her smile innocent and bright.

He thought it was just because she was young and didn't remember.

Until one day, Irene knocked over a vase on the table.

It didn't break, just tipped over.

The little girl immediately widened her eyes, looking at him with a shrinking body, trembling as she apologized,

“Brother, I'm sorry, I didn't...