((tw: family drama and death))
Valentine knew that not many people agreed with his methods. He knew that people whispered about him and called him a monster for the way he raised his children, but he didn't care.
He didn't owe anyone any explanations. He didn't owe anyone his past, or his reasoning behind his tactics.
Valentine did not owe anyone the tale of his first born. He didn't owe them the story behind the woman he had loved, whom he had wed and how he had been absolutely ecstatic when she had came to him and told him that she was with child. He didn't owe anybody the information of her death and how he had wept over the corpse of his wife and their stillborn baby.
Valentine didn't have to tell anyone about how he had refused to leave his room for months. He didn't need to tell a soul about how he had refused to clean his house, refused to wipe away any trace of his love and the life that they had shared.
Nobody had to know about his own father, a cold and stoic man who had never appeared to be fond of Valentine in any shape or form. They didn't have to know about the promise that Valentine had made to his dying father to ensure the continuation of their blood line, and the continuation of their families respectable name and lineage.
Nobody needed to know about how Valentine had wept and struggled. They didn't have to know about how many women he had courted before retreating into his solitude like a wounded creature, unable to shake the thought that he was betraying his former love.
Yes, despite the horrible things that people thought about him, nobody needed to know any of that. Except, perhaps, his children. His children who thought he was a monster just like everybody else, who hated him and looked at him with so much disgust and disdain that Valentine found himself unable to bring up the topic.
He wished he had of told them sooner, then perhaps they would understand why he did the things that he did. But it was too late. They hated him. His fathers dying wish had cost Valentine everything, and he had not even managed to fulfil it. It had all been a waste, just like his life.
There was no one who hated Valentine more than himself.
