"It was really a misunderstanding," Claudia replied. "She's Brianna Hart's daughter. She meant no harm. My maid is to blame."
"Brianna?" she repeated softly, the name tasting strange on her tongue — sweet and sour all at once. "Bri? She used to babysit Eric, didn't she?"
"Yes…" Claudia confirmed hesitantly.
"Oh, I see," Vivienne murmured. And indeed, she did see — with the clarity of lightning splitting the dark.
Her mind flickered back to that night — that night — nineteen years ago. The chaos, the whispered accusations, the look in Ingrid's eyes just before it was all over. For years, there had been a single moment she could never quite explain.
Could it be… that the child…
No. Impossible.
And yet—
Her fingers tightened around her phone. "Interesting," she said softly, masking the tremor that ran through her.
On the other end, Claudia continued talking — about sending her love to Charles — but Vivienne barely heard her. Her mind was racing now, connecting fragments, memories, whispers long buried. The girl.
Ingrid.
She could almost see her sister's face superimposed over that girl's.
"I'll see you soon," Claudia's voice broke through the fog of Vivienne's thoughts.
Vivienne blinked, grounding herself again. "Of course," she said.
When she ended the call, she lowered the phone slowly.
The butler approached her.
"Mr. Duvall has gone to bed, Mrs. Thorne," the butler said, bowing slightly as he took her coat.
"And my niece?"
"In her bedroom, ma'am. Retired for the night."
"Of course," she murmured, glancing up the sweeping staircase. "I just need to take a look at something before I leave."
The butler, used to her unpredictable visits, simply inclined his head. "Of course, ma'am."
Her heels clicked softly as she moved down the hallway toward the parlour. She stood for a moment at the threshold, her hand resting lightly on the doorframe.
Then she looked at the massive portrait dominating the wall above the fireplace. Ingrid.
Vivienne stepped closer, her breath shallow. The painting captured her sister in her prime — delicate, smiling, radiant.
Vivienne stared up at the portrait, every emotion that she had buried for nineteen years crawling its way back to the surface — jealousy, grief, rage, longing.
Her fingers brushed over the carved edge of the frame. "You always did know how to steal the spotlight, didn't you?" she whispered.
She studied the face again, trying to make sense of the chaos in her mind. The more she looked, the less she saw that girl from earlier. Sera. It was maddening.
"No…" she murmured, shaking her head. "I'm imagining things."
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was her guilt, catching up after all these years. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.
And then—
"Vivienne?"
The voice startled her, aged but still commanding.
She turned sharply, her heart leaping. Charles stood near the doorway in his robe, his white hair slightly tousled.
"Charles," she breathed, recovering her composure. "You frightened me."
But then she saw it — the way the light fell across his features, the shape of his cheekbones, the line of his mouth — and suddenly, everything clicked into place.
Her breath caught.
The girl didn't remind her of Ingrid.
She reminded her of Charles.
Except for the hair — where his was pure, impossible white, hers was an inky black cascade. But everything else… everything else screamed of him.
"My God," she whispered without meaning to.
Charles frowned slightly. "What is it?"
Vivienne shook her head quickly, covering her slip with a brittle smile. "Nothing," she lied.
"You need to stop coming here, Vivienne."
"I came to see my niece," she said softly.
"You and I both know that's not the reason you keep coming around here. Delilah is old enough now. She doesn't need you fawning over her every hour. She's not your daughter."
Vivienne's eyes flashed. She moved toward him slowly. "And yet she is," she countered. "My sister left her to me right before she died."
"Of course," he said, with a faint, sardonic smile. "You are the only witness to your sister's last moments. No one else around to counter that." He tilted his head. "How convenient."
"What should I have done?" she demanded. "Abandoned her? Because you couldn't stand the sight of me?"
He stared at her, his jaw tightening.
"It was the night of the Blood Moon," she said. "The Shadow Wolf was loose. Everything was chaos. Everyone had run for their lives."
Charles looked away.
"And yet you were here," he murmured after a long silence.
"Because I came to tell Ingrid that my daughter had died," she said. "I needed my sister."
Charles turned to face her fully. His silver hair gleamed against the light.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "My point still stands," he said. "If you need to see Delilah, you can ask her to visit you. You don't need to be here."
"And how about when I want to see you?" Vivienne asked.
Charles exhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Ah… there it is," he said dryly. "The real reason you still keep coming. Aren't you tired, Vivienne?"
"Of wanting you?" she asked. "Never. You need a wife, Charles. Delilah needs a mother."
"I need nothing," he said. "And you're filling the mother role quite well. Don't push your luck."
"I see the years haven't dulled your arrogance."
"And I see age didn't fix your delusion," he countered.
"Charles," she said softly.
"Do not come here again unless it's absolutely necessary."
"Charles," she tried again, desperation threading through the silk of her voice. "Why can't you just see me? It's been over twenty years."
He turned away, shoulders squared. "Your sister was my mate," he said flatly. "Respect her memory."
"Am I not in the best position to fill her shoes?"
He turned then, slowly.
"Ingrid," he said quietly, "was beautiful. Lovely. Kind. Gracious. You are nothing like her."
Vivienne's throat closed up. "You forget I buried her with my own hands while you were too broken to breathe."
"Say your goodbyes to Delilah," he said. "Good night, Vivienne."