The door closed behind her with the soft hush of old money and secrets.
Rain clung to her shoulders as Aria stepped onto the black marble of the foyer, her heels making no sound against the pristine floor. The air inside the Moreau estate was warmer than outside, but not by much. Not where it mattered.
Above, chandeliers glittered like a mouthful of sharpened teeth, light catching on cut glass and gilded fixtures that hadn't changed since her childhood. Expensive. Lifeless. Choking on its own importance.
The silence greeted her before anyone else.
Two maids moved past with their heads bowed too quickly. One glanced at her, then immediately looked away—as if eye contact might be seen as a betrayal.
Still trained to pretend I'm invisible.
She advanced further into the space, each step echoing beneath high ceilings and heavy stares that hadn't arrived yet. The coat clung to her frame, damp and slightly wrinkled from the car ride. She didn't adjust it. Didn't reach for the belt. Let them look, if they came. Let them wonder how she walked in on her own.
Footsteps—measured, pointed—descended from the grand staircase.
Isabelle Moreau.
Nothing about her had changed. Not the way her hand glided down the banister like it was part of a rehearsed performance. Not the way she walked as if gravity bent around her instead of acting on her. Her pearl earrings matched the pale blue of her heels. Her lips, however, were painted the exact color of strategy.
"Aria," Isabelle greeted with a warmth that held no heat. "You're here earlier than expected."
"I was summoned," Aria replied, calm and dry. "I assumed urgency."
A flash of something—surprise?—crossed Isabelle's face, but it disappeared too quickly to study.
She smiled, sharp as crystal. "That coat looks very… practical."
Aria tilted her head. "It's for the rain." She blinked. "I don't melt."
Behind Isabelle, footsteps padded down more softly—like silk whispering across wood.
Juliet. Arms folded, expression smug in that familiar teenage way, though she was no longer a teenager. Her curled blonde hair was pinned up with glinting silver clips, strands artfully loosened for effect. Her gaze drifted from Aria's damp coat to her shoes, to her face, as if she were scanning for flaws to feed on.
"Look who the storm dragged in," she said sweetly, resting her chin against the banister. "I almost forgot what guilt looked like in person."
Aria didn't respond. Not to Juliet. Not to the ghosts in her voice.
Selene joined a moment later—flawless in a black silk blouse and heels that didn't dare smudge on real pavement. She smiled the way one might at a servant who'd spilled wine.
"Did they not give you a dress code for broken homes?" she asked.
Aria's lashes lowered. She tilted her head, gaze slow, deliberate. "Aria didn't flinch. "I assumed everyone here especially you would be dressed for dysfunction.""
Selene's smile twitched. Juliet let out a short laugh, then immediately silenced it.
The air shifted.
Nothing loud. Nothing dramatic. But enough. Aria felt the balance begin to tilt—not in her favor, but in her control.
It wasn't a win. Not yet.
But it was a start.
Isabelle stepped forward, clasping her hands loosely in front of her. "Your room has been prepared. I trust you'll find it sufficient. Your father preferred you be housed in the south wing."
My father. The words hit different now. In the last life, she would've clung to them. Now, they landed with a hollow thud.
Aria nodded once. "That will be fine."
She said nothing about how the south wing was the farthest point from the rest of the family. Nothing about how that same room once smelled like mildew and exile.
Isabelle turned, gesturing for the staff to collect Aria's things. None moved until she glanced at them sharply. Then, in silence, two maids hurried past. One's hand trembled as she reached for the suitcase.
Selene leaned closer to Juliet and whispered something low enough that Aria couldn't hear—but just loud enough for her to notice. It didn't matter. Whatever poison they were brewing, she'd tasted worse.
But still…
There was a familiar hollowness here.
The kind that once swallowed her.
Not this time.
The corridor behind them stretched long and golden-lit, lined with portraits of men in suits and women in pearls. None of them ever smiled. Neither did Aria.
A door opened near the side hall.
Someone stepped out—casual, fluid, unbothered by the storm just outside the walls.
Noel.
He walked in with a folder tucked under his arm, sleeves rolled just enough to show veined forearms, his sleeve tattoo and a fine watch hugging his wrist. Rain dotted his hair. His tie was loose at the neck, like he'd just left a meeting or had refused to finish one.
He looked at no one else.
Just her.
And for a moment, time stilled.
Not because it was romantic—not yet. There were no violins. No slow-motion glances.
But because it was recognition. Something real. Something quiet.
Something human in a house that only knew how to rehearse.
Noel paused briefly in the archway. His eyes scanned her face—not questioning, not surprised—but searching. Like he felt it too. That hum beneath the surface. That whisper of something unspoken dragging its nails through the room.
He gave a small nod.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing performative.
But real.
And it was enough.
Aria held his gaze for a second longer than she needed to.
In her mind, the words returned—not loud, not grieving. Just steady.
Even now… you're still the only one who sees me.