The car rolled slowly along the winding driveway. Gravel crunched sharply under the tires, a sharp contrast to the quiet night. Moonlight spilled over the manicured hedges, stretching long shadows across the lawn, silvered and serene.
At the end of the driveway, Ravenwood Mansion rose—imposing, elegant, immovable. Its stone walls glimmered under the moon, softened by the shadows of towering oaks. Light flickered faintly in some windows, reflecting the driveway lamps. Even in the stillness, the house seemed alive, breathing quietly under the vast night sky.
Her parents sat beside her in the car, quiet. Her father's hands rested lightly on his knees, firm and steady. Her mother's fingers twined around the strap of her bag, lingering with a warm, gentle touch.
"Take care of yourself," her father said, voice low, controlled.
Her mother's eyes softened, a faint tremor in her tone. "Eat well. Sleep well. Don't tire yourself unnecessarily."
Aveline nodded calmly, her voice measured. "I will."
She leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her mother's cheek. Her mother blinked, startled, before a warm smile spread across her face.
Then Aveline turned to her father, brushing her lips lightly over his cheek. He nodded, a small, restrained smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Goodbye," she said simply.
Her parents exchanged a glance—half-surprised, half-proud. "She's… changed," her mother murmured.
Aveline stepped out of the car, adjusting the strap of her bag. Gravel crunched beneath her heels as she walked toward the mansion. Moonlight painted the driveway in silver, highlighting the sharp edges of hedges and the grand columns at the entrance.
---
Inside, the mansion exhaled quiet order. Polished floors reflected the dim ambient light, stretching shadows along the long hallways.
The staff had completed their duties, retreating to quarters or distant wings. The house was alive only in its own stillness—the soft hum of air through vents, the faint creak of settling floors, the whisper of curtains brushing the windows.
Aveline paused, taking in the calm. The house felt alive, restrained, deliberate. Every object had its place. Every shadow held its edge.
She moved carefully, heels whispering against the polished floors. Each step deliberate, each motion precise.
The master bedroom awaited. The door stood slightly ajar, a soft glow spilling from the bedside lamp. She stepped inside, closing it gently behind her.
The bed was immaculate, sheets smooth under the golden light. She lowered herself onto it carefully. The mattress sighed softly beneath her weight. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and linen, with a subtle touch of lavender.
Her eyes closed. Sleep came gentle and unbroken, until a flicker of memory stirred her awake.
White walls. Harsh lights. Metallic tangs. Shadows leaning over gleaming floors.
Her eyes snapped open. Midnight.
The mansion remained quiet.
Aveline swung her legs over the bed and stood. Bare feet brushed the cool polished floor. She pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders.
She moved with deliberate precision, each step measured. The house was silent, save for its own settling—the distant hum of a vent, a soft draft along the corridors. No staff, no wandering maids. Only the mansion's contained life.
The study door was closed. But she knew he could be there.
---
She paused at the doorway, listening. Moonlight from a nearby window pooled across the floor, casting long silver lines. Shadows stretched along the edges of the room.
The door was solid mahogany, cold under her fingers. She pushed it open slowly.
Inside, the study was meticulous. Mahogany shelves rose to the ceiling, filled with leather-bound books. Papers were scattered across the desk in deliberate, almost artistic disarray. A single lamp cast a warm pool of light over them. The rest of the room dissolved into soft shadows.
Lucian sat behind the desk, pen in hand, absorbed in his work. He did not notice her at first.
Aveline stepped inside silently. Footfalls measured. Shadows shifted with her movement. Moonlight outlined the desk, his chair, and her own figure.
The study smelled faintly of polished wood, paper, and ink. The warmth of the lamp met the cool moonlight streaming through the window, painting the scene in gentle contrast.
Finally, Lucian lifted his gaze. Their eyes met—calm, steady, unflinching.
Aveline rested her hand lightly on the edge of the desk. She did not disturb the papers, did not reach for anything. She simply allowed herself to exist in the space, a quiet force.
The lamp's glow highlighted the faint crease of his brow, the pen poised between his fingers. Outside, the wind whispered against the windows, stirring the curtains just enough to cast ripples of soft shadow across the floor.
---
"It's past midnight," Aveline said, her voice low, deliberate.
Lucian exhaled slowly, exhaustion evident in the timbre of his words. "What do you want?" His eyes, shadowed under the lamp's glow, regarded her carefully.
Aveline tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Why did you sign the divorce papers? Do you… really want to divorce me?"
Lucian's lips curved into a dark, tired chuckle. His eyes, heavy with thought, met hers. "Isn't that what you wanted?" His voice was bitter, edged with memory. "Now you're free. You can be with Damian, as you like."
---
Aveline's gaze held him, unwavering. Her fingers brushed lightly over the desk, as if drawing strength from the solid wood beneath her. Every subtle movement radiated quiet determination.
"Why?" she asked again, calm but edged with disbelief. "Why would you sign the divorce papers? After everything… just let it go?"
Lucian's dark eyes remained steady. He leaned back, the chair creaking slightly. "I'm not letting you go," he said evenly. "You never wanted this. You never liked me. You resisted—every step of the way. I'm fulfilling your wish."
Aveline pressed her lips into a thin line, fingers flexing subtly. Frustration hummed beneath her calm exterior. "Resisted? Perhaps in the past, yes," she murmured. "But I am not the same now. I know what I want, and I am here to fight for this marriage. I will not accept this."
He tilted his head, studying her. "You speak of fighting," he said softly, "but your heart has always belonged elsewhere. You love him—Damian. You always have. So what changes now?"
Aveline's eyes narrowed, but her posture stayed poised, controlled. "Perhaps I did, once," she admitted, "but that was before I understood. Before I saw the truth. This marriage—our marriage—is more than a name on paper. It is more than appearances. I will not allow it to end because someone assumes I cannot see what is right in front of me."
Her hand brushed over the desk. "I tore the papers," she said, tilting her head to meet his gaze. "I did it so you would understand. I am no longer naive. I am no longer the girl who would cry and surrender. I am reborn. This marriage will not be over—not now, not ever—unless I say so."
Lucian leaned back further, fingers drumming lightly, tension visible only in subtle movements. "You do not love me," he said quietly. "You never have."
Aveline stepped closer, deliberate. "Maybe not before," she said softly, "but now… I do. I love you. I know how you care, even if you hide it. I am not here to claim your affection—I am here to stand as your wife, to make this marriage work. To confront it head-on, rather than let it collapse from fear, pride, or misunderstanding."
Lucian's eyes met hers—dark, unreadable, calm.
Aveline's lips curved faintly, controlled. "I do not need to know all your reasons," she said evenly. "All I need to know is this: the papers are gone. The divorce is null. And I am not leaving—not until we face whatever this truly is… together."
The room fell silent. Lucian's eyes lingered on her, fingers drumming lightly, restrained, as if weighing her words.