Late That Night
Moonlight spilled across the marble floors of her room, pooling at the base of the wardrobe like a spotlight. Aira stood in the silence, barefoot, a silk robe clinging to her frame like second skin. The house was quiet, asleep. Only her heartbeat echoed in the hush.
She reached for the wardrobe handle.
The doors opened with a soft click.
The air inside was faintly scented with lavender sachets and cedarwood. Every hanger was perfectly aligned. Every item—hers.
She stepped inside slowly.
Her fingers glided over the fabric of a dress she'd designed for an editorial that never happened. A cropped jacket she made during a sleepless winter. A pair of boots she'd once considered too sharp, too bold.
Each piece had a story.
But none of them were stories her family knew.
Her hand lingered on a muted burgundy trench coat—the first full outfit she had ever designed under Éclat Noire. It had taken three revisions, two breakdowns, and one spontaneous trip to Paris to finalize the stitching.
And now… here it was.
Bought by people who had no idea they were gifting her back her own soul.
For a moment, Aira just stood there.
Then, in the hush of night, she sat on the velvet ottoman and let herself feel.
Not sob. Not shatter.
Just feel—the weight of their effort, the soft, aching truth of it.
They had tried.
They had loved her in the only way they knew how—by giving her the very best.
Even if they didn't yet know that the best had come from her.
She didn't cry.
But her throat tightened as she whispered into the silence, "I don't know how to be someone's daughter anymore."
The wardrobe, lined with her own creations, whispered back with silence.
And still, she stayed there a while longer.
The Next Morning
Breakfast was… a quiet affair, despite the size of the dining hall.
Aira entered wearing a deep green blouse from the wardrobe—her own design. None of them commented on it, though Lucien's eyes lingered a moment too long. Not in recognition, but curiosity.
Five pairs of eyes met her as she took the seat at the far end of the long table.
Elias, seated at the head, nodded in greeting. "Morning."
She returned the nod, lips barely parting. "Morning."
Cassian, already sipping coffee, offered a half-smile. "We weren't sure what you liked, so there's… everything."
It was true. The table was a spread of options—continental, local, sweet, savory. Someone had clearly tried.
Ronan gestured to the basket of pastries. "Those are fresh from the estate bakery. Thought you might like the almond croissants."
Aira's brows lifted slightly. "Do I look like someone who eats croissants?"
He blinked. "Uh…"
Then she reached forward and took one anyway.
The tension broke just a little.
Lucien leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in his palm. "So, you don't talk much."
"I say what's necessary," she replied coolly.
Evander snorted softly into his coffee. "She's a Laurent."
The others chuckled, and even Aira's lips curved—barely, but it was there.
They didn't press her.
There were no invasive questions. No dramatic outbursts. Just quiet conversation around her, like a rhythm she could choose to join—or not.
She sat in that stillness, watching her brothers. Their banter was easy, but their glances at her were tentative. Hopeful. Careful.
Aira picked at her food slowly.
When Lucien passed her the butter dish, their fingers brushed. He pulled back instantly, a slight flush rising on his cheeks.
"Sorry."
"It's fine."
Another small crack.
By the time the meal ended, Aira hadn't said much more—but she hadn't left either. She stayed until the end, quietly observing, her guard fractionally lower.
And as they rose from the table, Elias paused beside her chair. His voice was low.
"If there's anything you want to change—room, food, anything—just say the word."
She looked up at him.
"I'll let you know."
And for the first time, it wasn't a dismissal.
It was a promise.