The car ride to the Harrow estate was silent.
Not quiet. Silent.
The kind of silence that lived beneath skin and breath and heartbeat.
Serena sat in the backseat, her fingers laced tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on the gray countryside rolling past the tinted windows. She hadn't seen this road in almost a decade. The hedgerows were taller. The sky lower. But the ache in her chest was the same.
Beside her, Damon didn't speak. He held her hand—firm, steady—but he didn't push.
That's what she loved about him.
Not his strength.
But his stillness.
The estate came into view like a memory clawing out of the earth. Massive wrought-iron gates. White stone walls stained by time. Ivy crawling up the sides like secrets left unchecked. Serena's heart knocked against her ribs as the driver pulled them to a stop.
Damon opened the door for her.
"You sure?" he asked, voice low.
"No," she said honestly. "But I need to see what's buried here."
---
Her mother was already waiting.
In the drawing room. Same place she always held her manipulations.
The fire crackled behind her. Champagne sat unopened beside a crystal flute, as if this were merely an afternoon visit and not a reckoning. She didn't rise when they entered. Just looked up from the flames like a woman welcoming ghosts to her parlor.
"I see you still remember the way," she said.
Serena stepped into the room, chin lifted. "I never forgot. I just chose not to come back."
Her mother's lips curved. "Ah. So you've grown teeth."
"No. I've always had them," Serena said, voice ice. "I just stopped asking permission to bite."
Damon stood at her side, his presence like a wall she could lean against if needed. But she didn't lean. Not yet.
Her mother finally stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her silk blouse. "You wanted answers. So ask."
Serena's voice was steady. "You said someone knows why my father died."
"Yes."
"Who?"
Her mother tilted her head. "Someone who knew him better than I did. Someone who claims the accident wasn't… accidental."
Serena's stomach clenched. "Why now?"
"Because they want to meet you. And because you've made yourself very visible, darling. You shine just like your father did—and that makes you a target."
Damon narrowed his gaze. "This someone—are they threatening her?"
Her mother didn't blink. "Not yet."
Serena took a step forward. "Why are you helping me? You spent my childhood trying to make me small."
"I spent your childhood trying to keep you alive," her mother snapped.
The room fell still.
Her voice softened just a touch. "Do you think I wanted to raise a daughter in shadows? Do you think I enjoyed putting rules around your spirit? I did it because your father left behind enemies. Because if they couldn't get to him, they'd get to us."
Serena stared, chest tight.
"You could've told me," she whispered.
Her mother shook her head. "You were a child. You still thought love fixed things."
"And now?"
Her mother's eyes softened—just a little. "Now I see you've survived enough to understand: Love doesn't fix you. But sometimes… it keeps you breathing long enough to fix yourself."
---
Later, outside in the stone garden Serena used to hide in, Damon wrapped his coat around her shoulders. The wind had picked up, and so had her thoughts.
"She's not the villain I remember," Serena murmured.
"She's not a hero either," Damon replied.
Serena looked at him. "You think I made a mistake coming here?"
"No," he said simply. "I think you were brave."
She let her head rest against his shoulder. "What happens now?"
"We find out who's pulling the strings," he said. "And we cut them."
She smiled faintly. "Always so poetic, Mr. Cross."
He turned, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Only for you."