Mother?
ARIANA'S POV
The city lights blurred through the car window as I leaned my head against the cool glass, my thoughts still spinning with the cryptic note, the key, the photo. Project Seraphim. The Blackthorn Institute. The puzzle pieces jumbled in my mind, sharp-edged and refusing to fit.
Hardin hadn’t said much after the envelope. He’d driven me back in silence, jaw clenched, gaze locked on the road like it might unravel all the answers if he stared hard enough. He dropped me at the gates without a word, just a nod that said: Be careful.
Now, as I stepped into the mansion, the familiar echo of my heels against the marble floors brought little comfort. Home felt less like sanctuary and more like a ticking clock. Something was coming. I could feel it.
The foyer was dim. The chandelier overhead cast fractured shadows across the polished floor. I glanced up the grand staircase, ready to retreat into the solace of my bedroom, but movement at the corner of my eye stopped me.
A glint. Glass. Liquid.
I turned.
There, in the den just beyond the hallway, someone sat at the bar. A silhouette hunched over, back slightly curved, a glass pressed to trembling lips.
I crept closer, my heart beginning to race. And then I saw her.
My mother.
She was nursing a drink—brown liquor that shimmered in the low light. Her hands shook as she set the glass down, her shoulders rising and falling with every breath. She looked...tired. Fragile in a way I’d never seen before.
I swallowed hard, something sharp lodging in my chest.
“Mom?”
She jumped, the glass slipping from her fingers and landing on the counter with a soft thud. Her eyes were wide, panicked. Then came the feeble attempt to cover it, to swipe the glass aside like she could erase what I’d just seen.
“Ariana,” she said quickly, voice uneven. “You're back.”
“I saw you.” My voice was low but firm. “Don’t lie to me. Not again.”
Her eyes, so much like mine, filled with regret.
I stepped into the room, crossing the distance between us in seconds. “You promised,” I said, voice cracking. “You promised after I caught you smoking that you’d stop. You said it was just stress, that it was a one-time thing. And now this?” I gestured toward the half-empty bottle on the counter.
She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.
“What are you doing to yourself?”
Her lips trembled. “It’s nothing, sweetheart. Just a bad night. I’ll be okay.”
“No, you’re not okay.” I choked on the words, hot tears stinging my eyes. “You’re drinking. You’re hurting. And I don’t know how to help you because you won’t let me in.”
She stood, reaching for me. “Ariana—”
I stepped back. “No. I need answers. Uncle Garry is in prison. He can’t hurt you anymore. So what is it? What are you running from? Drinking won’t fix it. Smoking won’t fix it. You’re killing yourself and you don’t even see it.”
Her face crumbled. She looked older than I remembered—lines of pain carved into her skin, her eyes dull with something deeper than sadness.
“Do you want to die?” I whispered. “Do you want to leave me alone? Do you want to orphan me?”
She covered her mouth with her hand, a sob slipping through. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Never.”
“Then why?” My voice broke as the tears fell. “Why are you doing this to yourself? Don’t you love me?”
She rushed forward then, pulling me into her arms with a strength I hadn’t expected. Her embrace was desperate, trembling.
“I love you,” she whispered into my hair. “I love you like my own.”
I froze.
The words hung in the air between us.
Like my own.
I pulled back slowly, searching her eyes. “What did you say?”
She blinked, her mouth opening then shutting. “Ariana, I—”
But before I could demand answers, before I could press the question tearing through my mind, she pulled me back into a tighter hug.
“No matter what,” she said, “you need to know that I love you. Always. That’s all that matters.”
I didn’t hug her back.
I stood stiff in her arms, a cold knot forming in my stomach.
Like my own.
I could barely breathe.
After a long moment, she let me go and stumbled back to the stool. Her hands trembled as she tried to gather the bottle and hide it again.
I turned away, my chest aching.
“Agnes,” I called, my voice trembling. “Can you come help my mother to her room?”
The maid appeared almost instantly, taking in the scene with silent understanding. She walked over gently, placing a hand on my mother’s shoulder and guiding her up the stairs.
I watched them disappear.
Then I stood there, in the quiet, empty space of the room, tears streaming down my face.
I felt lost. Like the floor beneath me had tilted. Nothing felt certain anymore.
What did she mean—like my own?
Why did she look so afraid?
And why did I feel like the walls around my life were beginning to crack open, piece by piece?
I walked over to the bar, picked up the abandoned glass, and stared at it.
The scent of alcohol was sharp. Bitter. Like everything else in this house right now.
I set the glass down and went to the window. The city stretched beyond the mansion’s walls, glittering and wide. But all I saw was darkness pressing in.
Elena. Project Seraphim. Blackthorn. My mother.
And now... this?
Was everything I thought I knew about my family a lie?
I placed a hand over my chest, willing the ache to stop. But it didn’t. It only deepened, spreading like a bruise.
I’d been trying so hard to help Hardin carry his ghosts.
I hadn’t realized mine were already waiting.
Watching.
And now?
They were waking up.
What if my whole life was a story built on secrets?
What if I was never meant to know the truth?
I turned away from the window and climbed the stairs to my room, each step heavier than the last.
I didn’t know what was real anymore.
But I knew one thing:
Someone had just cracked open a door that had been sealed shut for too long.
And whatever was on the other side?
It was coming for me.
I could feel it.
And this time, it wasn’t going to be as simple as closing the door again.