The sunlight had grown sharper by the time Henry left for the office, cutting across the marble floors and gilded railings of the mansion. Aria lingered in the grand hall, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she had brewed earlier, the warmth doing little to thaw the chill that had settled in her chest. The morning's confrontation with Henry, the cautious bridge built through the simple act of cooking together, lingered in her mind like an unsteady pulse. For once, she felt a strange mixture of fatigue and clarity—an awareness that she was no longer entirely at the mercy of others, yet still tethered by invisible expectations.
Her phone rang, the sharp chime cutting through the quiet of the otherwise still house. She frowned, glancing at the screen. Her mother's name flashed insistently, accompanied by the faint vibration that seemed almost accusatory. Aria's thumb hovered over the call for a moment, heart fluttering. She hadn't spoken to her mother in over a month. She hadn't written, hadn't answered letters, hadn't returned calls. And yet here she was, summoned once again into a world that had never seen her as a person.
Reluctantly, she answered.
"Aria," her mother's voice came, polished, authoritative, yet underlined with a note of unease. "Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for weeks."
"I've been… busy," Aria replied, her tone deliberately neutral. She didn't want to give herself away. Her mother's voice had always carried that subtle judgment, the kind that made one feel like a child being lectured rather than a woman being spoken to.
"I see," her mother said after a pause, a faint suspicion threading through her carefully controlled words. "Well… I thought you might like to join me for five o'clock tea today. There are a few things we need to discuss."
Aria tilted her head, considering. Part of her wanted to refuse, to retreat to the safety of her transformed room, the sanctuary she had carved from the suffocating grandeur of the mansion. But another part of her—the part that had begun to assert itself in small, defiant gestures—wanted to see just how far the old patterns of expectation would stretch. "Alright," she said finally. "I'll be there."
By the time she arrived at her family's estate, the sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the manicured lawns. She was greeted by the familiar scent of roses and polished wood, the atmosphere meticulously crafted to convey elegance and control. Her mother appeared in the drawing room, a model of composure, pouring tea with the practiced ease of someone who had never worried about anyone else's needs but her own.
"Sit," her mother instructed, gesturing to the high-backed chairs around the table. "Tell me… how is your marriage? Henry treating you well?"
Aria's hands closed around the delicate porcelain cup, the heat grounding her. She considered the question, then shook her head slightly, a small, ironic smile tugging at her lips. "We're managing," she said, careful not to betray the undercurrents of their morning.
Her mother nodded approvingly, but instead of asking how she felt—about anything—she immediately launched into a lecture. "You must try harder, Aria. Marriage is not just a partnership of feelings; it is a matter of strategy, of maintaining appearances, of guiding your husband's influence in the right direction. You are twenty-five. Time is slipping, and a proper family depends on a proper wife."
Aria's chest tightened. She had expected this. She had expected every word. And yet, it stung, the way her mother still framed her life as a project, as a series of obligations rather than a journey of her own choosing.
"And how am I supposed to do that?" she asked sharply, setting her cup down. "Be a perfect vessel for children? Attend to a husband's whims? Pretend I am not a person with desires, with thoughts, with my own life?"
Her mother's eyes narrowed, the mask of composure flickering. "Aria, do not speak to me like that. You will learn. You must learn. I am trying to help you."
"No," Aria said, her voice rising now, the calm she had maintained for weeks fracturing. "You're trying to mold me into something I am not. You never treated me like a human being. You raised me to be a tool, a connection, a status symbol. You never asked what I wanted. You never respected me, and you never loved me for who I am."
Her mother's face flushed, a mix of anger and disbelief. "How dare you—"
"Do not!" Aria interrupted, standing abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor, sharp against the polished wood. "Do not pretend that I owe you obedience, that I owe you gratitude for a life I never chose. I am not a breeding vessel. I am not an accessory. I am Aria. And I will not live for your ambitions anymore."
The room fell silent, the air vibrating with the weight of words long held back. Her mother's lips pressed into a tight line, the teacup trembling slightly in her hand. Aria turned, her pulse thrumming with both fear and exhilaration, and walked toward the door. Each step felt like reclamation, each movement a defiance against a lifetime of subjugation.
Outside, the evening air hit her like a rush of freedom. She stepped onto the driveway, her body trembling, a mixture of adrenaline and tears clouding her vision. She leaned against the hood of her car, letting the first sobs break free. Why had she always felt so small, so worthless, so endlessly inadequate in the eyes of those who should have loved her?
Her hands shook as she started the engine, driving almost on instinct, letting her mind wander to the dark, quiet expanse of the lake on the outskirts of the city. The one place she had always associated with release, with surrender. She parked near the water, the cool breeze lifting her hair, brushing against her tear-streaked face. For a long moment, she simply stared at the mirrored surface, thinking of the life she had lived, the second chance she had been given, and the weight of expectations that still clung to her.
Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. The temptation to let the car roll into the lake, to release all the pain and disappointment in a single act, tugged at her. But she could not. Not yet. Not when she still had a chance to live differently, to claim agency in a world that had never granted it.
After a long, trembling breath, she turned the car back toward the mansion, the night swallowing her as she drove. By the time she arrived, the house was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the central heating and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
And of course, Darcy's footsteps. There's been something strange about it lately.