The west wing of the Quinn estate had that eerie museum vibe—quiet, overpolished, and haunted by too many secrets.
Aria walked slowly, barefoot this time. Her slippers were somewhere in the hallway. She'd stopped caring halfway through her fifth lap of pacing. The silence here wasn't peaceful. It was sharp. Like it was listening.
She paused in front of a dusty old mirror tucked between portraits of people she didn't know and honestly didn't care to. The woman in the reflection looked like her… but upgraded. The hair, the skin, the poise—all familiar but distant. She looked like someone who had survived hell and decided she liked it better than this.
"You again," she whispered.
The mirror didn't answer. But it didn't need to. She'd already lived the conversation.
Then came the voice.
"You always did like drama."
Aria turned slowly. Of course. Celeste. Xander's younger sister. Same perfect bone structure, same sharp tongue, same deeply buried loathing.
"You always did like sneaking up on people," Aria shot back.
Celeste shrugged, stepping into the light like some rich-girl villain in a Netflix series.
"Everyone thought you'd stay gone," she said, looking Aria up and down. "Yet here you are. Back from the dead. Literally. It's a little much, even for you."
Aria smiled politely. "I missed your passive aggression. It's like perfume made from vinegar."
Celeste's eyes narrowed. "You're not the same."
"I'm not." Aria stepped closer to the mirror, then looked Celeste straight in the eye. "I wouldn't survive in this house if I was."
A long pause. Then Celeste smirked, and with a flick of her hair, disappeared down the hall.
The silence returned.
But this time, it felt like it was watching her differently.