The rain outside had slowed to a steady whisper against the windows, but inside the hospital, the air only thickened.
Someone — a nurse maybe — murmured condolences Aria didn't hear.
Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed too hard.
The world kept moving. As if a man hadn't just died inside these walls.
As if she hadn't just watched it happen.
Her jacket clung to her skin, soaked and heavy, but she barely felt it anymore.
Only the weight in her chest stayed. Growing. Stretching out cold fingers that gripped her tighter with every second.
Across the corridor, Isabelle spoke softly to the doctor — too softly.
Every tilt of her head, every brush of her hand against her scarf, screamed practiced grief.
Selene and Juliet flanked her, their faces carefully composed into something that looked almost like mourning.
Almost.
"Family, please," the doctor said, clearing his throat.
"Come with me. We'll discuss arrangements privately."
His tone was too polite. Too detached.
The kind used for business transactions, not deaths.
Isabelle rose first, smoothing her skirt.
Selene linked arms with her like they were attending a society luncheon.
Juliet shoved her phone into her bag, shooting a last look at whatever message she hadn't finished typing.
Aria followed last.
No one reached for her hand.
No one even looked back to see if she was coming.
The consultation room was small, windowless, suffocating.
A single harsh light buzzed overhead.
Folders lay stacked neatly on the table, waiting like loaded guns.
Isabelle chose the seat at the head of the table without hesitation.
Selene and Juliet flanked her, silent shadows.
Aria took the chair nearest the door.
And behind her, standing, hands loosely clasped in front of him — Noel.
Unmoving. Watching.
Her anchor in a room full of sharpened knives.
The doctor cleared his throat again, flipping open the top file.
"First, I'm deeply sorry for your loss," he began, voice carefully neutral.
"There are a few matters we must attend to immediately. Body transfer. Paperwork. Decisions regarding an autopsy—"
"No," Isabelle cut in, sharp and smiling at once.
"There's no need for that."
The doctor blinked, caught off guard.
Isabelle leaned forward slightly, voice softening just enough to sound wounded:
"He was under immense stress. Everyone knows it. Let him rest in peace without... formalities."
Aria watched her.
Watched the way her fingers drummed once against the table before stilling.
Watched the too-quick flicker of her eyes.
Saw the lie blooming under every word.
The doctor hesitated, then nodded, scribbling something down.
Aria said nothing.
Inside her chest, something cold clicked into place.
It wasn't grief.
It was certainty.
"Next," the doctor continued, flipping a page, "you'll need to initiate formal notification to the Moreau Corp board. Standard protocol in case of executive death."
Isabelle smiled.
Tired.
Sweet.
Predatory.
"Of course. We'll handle it immediately," she said.
Selene nodded along, like a dutiful echo.
Juliet traced a finger along the rim of a plastic cup, eyes blank.
Aria stared at them.
Saw the gears already turning behind their carefully folded hands.
Saw the hunger.
A buzz broke the stale air.
Aria's phone.
She pulled it out, glancing down.
A single text, blinking against the cracked screen:
From: Moreau Legal Office
Subject: Estate Notice
Message: Will Reading. 10:00 a.m. sharp. Attendance mandatory.
Her fingers curled tighter around the device.
The plastic creaked under the pressure.
Across the table, Isabelle's mouth twitched — a smirk barely hidden.
She knew.
They all knew.
Aria leaned back in her chair, the USB drive pressing cool against her ribs under her jacket.
Let them think they had the upper hand.
Let them play their pretty games.
The wolves always underestimated the deer.
Until they realized the deer had grown teeth.
The doctor stood, gathering his files.
"We'll move Mr. Moreau to the private wing tonight. If you have specific funeral arrangements, our staff can—"
"Yes, we'll coordinate it," Isabelle said briskly, rising from her chair like the queen reclaiming her throne.
Aria stayed seated a moment longer.
Letting them rise first.
Letting them believe they still controlled the floor.
Noel waited behind her, still and silent, until she finally stood.
In the hallway, the air tasted different.
The antiseptic sharpness of the ER was gone, replaced by the faint smell of polished wood and old money.
The hospital administrators must have moved them into the "VIP" wing without asking — instinctively bowing to the Moreau name.
For now.
Isabelle paused a few feet ahead, gathering Selene and Juliet closer like a flock of birds.
They spoke in low murmurs, glancing once — just once — over their shoulders at Aria.
Measuring.
Plotting.
Already calculating where to strike first.
Aria didn't rush to catch up.
She stayed back, feeling Noel fall into step beside her.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn't have to.
Words would have been wasted here, in a hallway lined with vultures already sharpening their smiles.
Her phone buzzed again.
Another message from the lawyers:
"Please be prepared for official estate statements to the media. Suggested public phrasing to be sent by morning."
Aria stared at the screen for a long second.
Suggested phrasing.
Suggested lies.
The hallway opened up into the main lobby.
Night pressed against the tall glass walls outside, black and unrelenting.
The rain had stopped, but the streets still gleamed with the aftermath — slick and treacherous under the cold glare of city lights.
A perfect mirror for everything that was about to happen inside the Moreau empire.
Aria slid the phone back into her pocket.
Straightened her spine.
Lifted her chin.
Whatever happened tomorrow, when they read that will —
whatever alliances broke, whatever knives came flying —
she wouldn't flinch.
Not again.
Not ever.