The house breathed in its sleep.
Faint creaks in the old pipes, a sigh of cold air under the doors, the distant whisper of trees brushing against the windows — the estate existed in a half-dream, unaware of the storm slowly pulling itself together inside its walls.
Aria moved through the corridors like a shadow stitched into the darkness.
Her slippers made no sound against the marble floors. Her breath barely stirred the heavy morning air.
Dawn pressed faint fingers against the tall windows, but no one was awake yet to see it. No staff bustling through the halls, no clipped voices echoing orders, no hollow laughter from Selene or Juliet.
Only silence.
And Aria, slipping deeper into the East Wing.
The brass key weighed against her palm — small, simple, unremarkable. Yet it felt heavier with every step she took. As if it knew it wasn't meant to be found. As if it resented being used to pry open what time and guilt had tried to bury.
Her fingers tightened around it.
No hesitation this time.
She reached the plain oak door without looking back.
Marie Lavoix.
The nameplate caught the dim light, glinting like a memory refusing to fade.
Aria slipped the key into the lock.
The soft click of the tumblers falling open sounded impossibly loud in the hush.
She pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind her with careful precision.
The air inside was different.
Cooler. Still.
It smelled of dust, old paper, and something softer — a faint trace of faded perfume clinging to the fabric of memory.
Dust motes hung suspended in the thin beams of early light breaking through the grimy windows.
The room hadn't changed.
The bed was neatly made — plain linen sheets yellowed slightly with age.
A small wooden wardrobe stood in one corner, its mirror covered with a heavy cloth.
A writing desk, scarred and well-used, sat beneath the window, flanked by two threadbare chairs.
No grandeur. No glittering signs of the Moreau fortune here.
Just a quiet, stubborn space carved out by a woman the family wanted everyone to forget.
Aria's throat tightened, but she shoved the feeling down hard.
There was no time for nostalgia.
No time for grief.
She moved toward the wardrobe first, opening it carefully.
Empty.
Except for a faint trace of lavender on the cracked wood panels.
The desk next.
She tested each drawer gently, working top to bottom.
Receipts. An old notebook filled with faded sketches — flowers, birds, scenes of distant places. A few postcards with no return addresses.
Nothing that explained why her mother had been erased like a bad dream.
Aria frowned, fingers tapping once against the wood.
There had to be more.
She crouched down, running her hands along the underside of the desk.
The edge of her fingernail caught on something rough.
A tiny seam.
Hidden where the desk's frame joined the main body — invisible unless you knew where to feel.
Her heart kicked against her ribs.
Carefully, she dug her nails into the seam and pulled.
A small panel popped loose with a faint snap.
Inside, tucked carefully into the hollow, was a bundle of letters — tied together with a ribbon so faded it looked almost gray.
Aria reached for them with a hand that barely felt like it belonged to her.
The top letter's paper crackled softly under her fingers.
The handwriting was slanted and elegant, impossibly familiar despite the years.
Marie Lavoix.
Her mother.
Aria sat back on her heels, the letters clutched to her chest for a moment she didn't allow herself to linger on.
Then she untied the ribbon.
The first letter opened with a whisper of old sorrow.
Vincent,
If you are reading this, it means I didn't come back. It means you'll have to keep your word.
Aria's throat closed up, but she forced herself to keep reading.
Our daughter deserves better than silence. If I die, promise me you'll give her the love you denied her. Not out of guilt. Not because you owe me. Because she is worth it.
Her hands shook.
Not violently.
Not visibly.
Just enough for her vision to blur at the edges of the script.
Marie's words bled into her, soft and cutting at once.
I wanted to believe you would choose differently. Even if it's too late for us.
The fire dying behind her in the hearth seemed to echo the finality of it.
Aria folded over slightly, forehead brushing the backs of her knuckles, the letter still clenched between them.
Not crying.
No.
The tears didn't come.
Only the hollow ache of a child who had spent her whole life wondering why she wasn't enough to be fought for.
Now she knew.
It hadn't been because she wasn't enough.
It had been because some promises were easier to bury than to keep.
Aria sat there for what could have been seconds or hours, the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle the only witness to the fracture in her carefully rebuilt walls.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful.
Coming closer.
Panic flared low and fast in her chest.
She shoved the letters back into the hollow space, hands fumbling only once before the panel clicked back into place.
The doorknob rattled.
Aria stood just as the door swung open.
Vincent Moreau filled the threshold — a wall of expensive cloth, iron control, and a storm already gathering behind his cold gaze.
For a second, he didn't move.
Just stared at her — at the guilty tension in her shoulders, the strain she couldn't quite hide.
Then his mouth flattened into a hard, brutal line.
"What the hell are you doing in here?"
His voice cut across the small room like a blade.
Aria straightened, lifting her chin.
No apology. No explanation.
Only the sharp, unflinching truth burning behind her eyes.
"Looking for what you buried."
Vincent's fists clenched at his sides.
His next words were quieter — more dangerous.
"You had no right."
Aria didn't flinch.
"She was my mother."
"She was my mistake," Vincent said sharply, voice roughened with something he couldn't name.
The admission — bitter, broken — hung in the room like smoke.
Aria took a step forward, closing the gap between them.
"Maybe," she said, low and steady. "But I wasn't."
A flicker of something — pain, regret, fury — crossed Vincent's face before he slammed it back into stone.
"You think finding a few letters gives you the right to rewrite history?"
Aria smiled bitterly.
"No," she said. "But it gives me the right to know what you tried so hard to forget."
The muscles along Vincent's jaw twitched.
He opened his mouth — another retort on the verge — and then—
The color drained from his face.
His body swayed once, violently.
And then crumpled forward.
"Vincent!"
Aria lunged, catching part of his weight as he collapsed onto his knees, the floor thudding under his body.
The scattered pages of a different history — her mother's words, her mother's voice — rained lightly to the floor around them.
And for the first time since she'd stepped foot back into this house, Aria felt something colder than anger curl through her chest.
Fear.