“It’s strange. I thought I’d feel more by now, but there’s only stillness. Anticipation, yes, but not joy or excitement. Just this unshakable belief that she will fix what I broke.”
Every entry reads like a lab log. Growth milestones documented in detached prose.
“She’s healthy. Bright. Already focused. She watches everything.”
Then, in a rare moment of self-awareness:“Cedric asks if I’ve taken any photos. I hadn’t even thought to.”Of course she hadn’t.
I was seven when I first proved their experiment successful, rewriting one of Father’s formulas and correcting his error.“He laughed and called it beginner’s luck,”she wrote.“But it wasn’t. She understood it.”
I remember that night better than I should. I’d left her a drawing—me and her, holding hands beneath a sun and scrawled at the top:Us.Her response is still etched into my chest like a brand.
“She was never supposed to be mine, but I think I would burn the world before I let it take her.”
The worst part? A piece of me is relieved they’re gone. No more walking that impossible line between being their daughter and being their legacy. No more decoding if Mom’s rare, clinical touches were rooted in affection, pride, or obligation. But that same traitorous sliver coils with guilt, because another corner of my heart still aches for them with a violence that refuses to dull. For the way Father’s eyes used to spark when we dissected theories late into the night. For those rare, unguarded seconds when Mom watched me as if I were something delicate and dangerous, unsure whether to preserve me or document the anomaly. They loved me, I know they did. Just never quite the way I needed them to.
But I can’t think about that. Won’t. Not when their deaths still don’t make sense and every accident report reads like carefully crafted fiction. Let the Founding Families keep their practiced sympathies and shallow condolences, I’ve seen what hides beneath their smiles. Magical pioneers don’t just die quietly on the verge of rewriting the world.
And Luna . . . sweet, naive Luna. Still trying to preserve our status among them with her flawless manners and dimpled charm. She’s too pure for their games, too trusting to recognize the performance beneath their gilded concern. I should protect her from them, but she won’t let me.
It’s easier to chase answers than confront the festering knot of grief and fury in my chest. Easier to dissect every detail of their deaths than face the uglier truth that, even now, after everything, part of me still wishes I’d been enough. Enough to make them choose me over their work and ambition.
The sharp rhythm of heels on marble breaks my brooding, and I don’t need to turn to know it’s Luna. My little sister has always moved like she’s floating. A trait that used to drive our etiquette tutors wild with envy. Even grief hasn’t stolen her grace, though sometimes I catch the way her smile trembles at the edges when she thinks no one’s watching.
“Aria?”
I glance over my shoulder. Luna stands haloed by the penthouse lights, all sunshine and summer breeze against my winter storm. Two dresses dangle from her manicured fingers. One a blush chiffon that belongs at a debutante luncheon, the other a sleek emerald silk. She’s been doing this more lately, these little attempts to draw me out of my self-imposed exile. Part of me wishes she’d stop trying so hard. A bigger part is terrified she might.
“Which one?” She holds each dress against her sun-kissed skin as she shifts her weight. Everything about her screams ‘darling of society’. Exactly what the Founding Families want in their heirlooms masquerading as women. Luna is softer, sweeter, infinitely more palatable than me. The new public face of the Ellis name, while I sit in the shadows, teeth bared, fingers stained with the truth they all pretend not to see.
I take another sip of whiskey, buying time. Even now, she dresses for a world she still believes can be redeemed. Sometimes I wonderif she resents me for abandoning her to navigate it alone. If she does, she never would admit it. But I’d understand if she did.
The emerald silk catches the city lights, its shimmer subtle but impossible to ignore. “The green,” I murmur. “It has teeth.”
Her laugh fizzes like champagne. “Only you would describe a dress that way.” She drapes the blush chiffon over a chair with grace I used to possess, back when I cared about such things.
I shift toward the balcony again, but Luna’s reflection appears in the glass beside mine, an unintentional portrait in stark contrast that would drive any artist to madness. Her golden waves catch the last spill of light, luminous and impossibly gentle, while my raven hair drinks in the sun, devouring brightness instead of reflecting it. Even nature knows which Ellis sister chose the path of light. Only our eyes betray our shared blood. Father’s piercing green that could strip away pretense with a single glance. Luna wears it like spring moss, warm and guileless. But in me, it’s permafrost—frigid, unyielding, honed by a lifetime of precision. Father once called it a weapon, when he caught me mimicking his glower in the mirror. I wonder if he’d admire how lethally I’ve learned to use it.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” Luna’s voice carries the barest edge of panic.
I keep my gaze fixed on the skyline, not wanting to see the disappointment cross her face. “I’m not going.”
“But you promised.” The hurt in her voice makes me wince. “Just yesterday you said you’d come with me. I’ve been telling everyone you’ll be there.”
“Everyone?” I laugh, bitter. “You mean the vultures who used to flock around our parents?”
“I just . . .” Her fingers smooth phantom creases from her dress. “I miss you. It’s not the same, going to these things alone.”
“You don’t need me there. You charm them all perfectly well on your own.”
“But I do need you.” She steps closer, and I catch the faint scent of jasmine and orange blossom. Mom’s signature perfume. Of courseLuna would wear it, trying so hard to keep their memory alive in every little way. “You’re my sister, Aria. My strength. Without you there, I feel so . . .” She trails off, those damn dimples fading as her voice thins to a tremble.
“Luna . . .”
“Alexander keeps asking about you,” she adds softly. “He’s handled everything since . . . well, everything. The funeral. The estate. Making sure we didn’t lose the house. The research division position he offered me? It’s real work, Aria. Groundbreaking projects. He even cleared my security access himself.”
“How considerate.” I can’t keep the venom out of my voice. “So efficient, isn’t he? Making himself indispensable before the bodies were even cold.”
“Don’t start.” She turns away, but not before I catch the shimmer in her eyes. “The board was ready to freeze all our assets during the investigation, Alexander prevented that. He’s the reason we still have access to their research, their accounts—”
