The rain hadn't stopped.
It poured in veils, washing the driveway in a dull sheen as if the world itself were scrubbing clean the sins of the Moreau estate. Aria stood at the edge of the stone steps, her heels silent against the wet marble. A black umbrella hovered above her, held by one of the estate's staff, but the wind still licked at her hair and soaked the hem of her coat.
A chorus of camera flashes erupted beyond the gates. Reporters lined the fence like vultures, calling her name, hurling questions she couldn't hear but already knew the shape of.
"Illegitimate heiress!"
"Is it true she forged the will?"
"Was her mother really a maid?"
Aria didn't flinch. Not today. Not when everything ahead was already fragile.
The town car waited below. Sleek. Armored. Out of place in its quiet dignity, as if it knew the street it would take her down wasn't meant for celebration.
Noel opened the back door without a word. His dark coat was already drenched, water glistening on his collar. His eyes met hers—steady, unreadable. The same look he always gave her before a storm.
Without speaking, Aria stepped in.
Inside the car, it was too quiet. The soft hum of the engine and the rain drumming on the roof were the only sounds. She adjusted the lapel of her blazer. The fabric didn't quite sit right. Nothing ever did in this house. Even when it wasn't the house anymore.
In her hand, she clutched her father's pen. A ridiculous thing to bring—sentimental and hollow. Yet it felt like a weight anchoring her to something that wasn't fear.
Noel sat beside her, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled in his lap. The car moved slowly past the gates, the wipers slicing through the grey.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn't have to.
Outside, the media faded into rain-warped silhouettes. Aria's heartbeat slowed as the estate disappeared behind them. But the cold in her chest didn't ease. If anything, it curled tighter.
"You're quiet," Noel said finally, his voice low, like he didn't want to disturb the storm.
"I have nothing left to explain," she murmured. Her fingers turned the pen between them. "It's all written already."
A pause.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
Aria looked out the window. The city loomed in the distance, blurred by fog and memory. "Does it matter if I am?"
Noel didn't answer.
She didn't need him to.
The company tower breached the skyline a few kilometers ahead. Sharp, sterile glass rising above the streets—a monument to everything she wasn't supposed to touch. Not as a bastard. Not as a woman. Not as her mother's daughter.
But still… hers.
She inhaled through her nose, slowly. The pen clicked once between her fingers. A nervous tick.
Noel shifted beside her. She could feel his gaze even without turning. There was something quiet and heavy in it—like he was memorizing her outline in case he lost it.
They reached the intersection.
Red light.
Then—
A horn.
Too loud.
Too close.
Aria's head snapped to the left.
A truck. Enormous. Black grille. Coming fast. No headlights. No warning.
Noel shouted something—too late.
The impact hit like thunder.
The world lurched.
Glass shattered inward.
The seatbelt yanked across her chest. Her shoulder slammed into the door. A flash of white pain licked down her spine. The car spun. Weightless. Gravity gone.
Aria heard herself scream—or maybe it was Noel. Maybe both.
The sky twisted. Asphalt blurred. Then another crash—metal grinding metal. They flipped.
Once.
Twice.
The pen slipped from her hand. The last thing she owned from him, tumbling into shadow.
Her skull cracked against the side panel. Her mouth filled with blood. Copper and static.
Noel's arm reached for her—but it was all upside down.
The ceiling crushed inward.
Her vision fractured.
Time collapsed.
And in the final moment, there was no noise.
Just silence. Pure and white. And cold.
I didn't even fight back.
Her last thought wasn't rage. Or grief. Or even regret.
It was smaller than that.
It was her uncle's voice—raw and broken—crying beside her mother's casket, whispering her name over and over like it was a prayer that went unanswered.