Rain whispered against the glass as if the sky itself mourned. Outside the Moreau estate, the garden lights flickered, casting fractured shadows across the marble floors of the corridor. Aria stood still in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the cuffs of her ivory blouse for the fourth time. The silk no longer felt luxurious—just suffocating.
Downstairs, laughter spilled faintly from the east parlor. A rich, hollow sound. Selene's voice, sharp as always, curled into the hallway. "White? Really? Someone should tell Aria the boardroom isn't a wedding aisle."
A few snickers followed. Aria didn't move. Let them talk. The words barely reached her anymore—she'd been drowning in them since the day she first walked into this house with a last name no one wanted her to wear.
She gathered her folders, tucked her phone into the side of her clutch, and stepped out.
The hallway was cool, lined with portraits of oil-painted ancestors who all seemed to look down at her with equal parts pity and judgment. The Moreau bloodline was never warm, not even in frame.
At the staircase, Lucas brushed past her with a half-drained glass of whiskey. No glance. No acknowledgment. Just the scent of expensive liquor and the trailing echo of indifference.
Good. One less mask to pretend with.
As she descended, Isabelle appeared at the foot of the stairs like a ghost in silk—draped in sapphire, her smile measured to the millimeter.
"You're up late," Isabelle said, her tone lacquered with politeness so thin it nearly cracked.
"I had things to prepare," Aria replied softly.
"Hmm. For tomorrow?" A long pause. "You've come far, Aria. I hope you remember where you came from."
A knife disguised as a compliment. Aria only nodded, her grip tightening on the edge of her clutch. "I never forget, madam."
A flicker in Isabelle's expression. Then nothing.
She swept past.
The study felt colder than usual. Vincent's old desk still stood at the far end like a throne no one dared touch. Aria's own workspace was tucked beneath the window—clean, uncluttered, purposeful.
She turned on the desk lamp, golden light pooling over printed documents. Shareholder structure. Legal transitions. Her father's will. Everything she would need to step into Moreau Corp tomorrow morning with her spine unbent.
Her fingers traced over the edge of her father's pen—the last thing he ever gave her before the world turned silent in that hospital hallway.
Is this really mine to claim? The question pressed against her ribs like a secret trying to claw its way out.
A soft knock broke the silence.
She turned.
Noel stepped in without waiting for a reply.
He looked like he always did—composed, unreadable, always slightly out of reach. The rain caught behind him in the hallway glass cast long lines over his frame like watercolor shadows.
"I figured you'd still be awake," he said, voice low, hands in the pockets of his dark coat.
"Couldn't sleep," Aria murmured. "Too much… spinning in my head."
He walked in, slowly, like every step was a choice. "You ready for tomorrow?"
She glanced at the stack of folders, then back at him. "Ready isn't the word. But I'll be there."
Noel gave a small, unreadable nod. He didn't tell her she'd do great. Didn't tell her to smile or stay strong. He knew better. He just stood there, looking at her like she was more than the girl everyone else pretended didn't exist.
He stepped closer, gaze flicking to the pen. "You're using his?"
She nodded. "He gave it to me the night before the will was read. I thought he was finally trying to say something."
"He was."
Aria looked up, but before she could ask, he stepped back.
"Get some rest," he said, softer now. "Tomorrow, you take the first step in claiming what's always been yours."
Then he left.
No more words. Just the whisper of the door closing behind him.
Alone again.
Aria sat down, resting her elbows on the desk, her hands pressed together over her lips. The room smelled of old ink and leather and something fading—like the end of a storm.
She picked up the pen.
Rolled it between her fingers.
Pressed it gently to her palm.
In the dim glow of the lamp, she stared at her own reflection in the window—hair pinned neatly, blouse still perfect, face unreadable.
You look like a Moreau now.
That thought didn't bring comfort.
It brought quiet dread.
She placed the pen down beside her folders and leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving the reflection.
In that reflection was a girl who had spent her whole life being spoken about, but never spoken to. A girl they branded illegitimate and disposable. A girl they didn't know was about to become something they couldn't control.
Maybe that's why the silence tonight felt heavier than usual.
As if the house itself knew…
this would be the last time she sat in this room as the girl they underestimated.