The chauffeur's eyes flickered up to the rear-view mirror, uncertain. "Director Blackwell… shall I take you back home?"
Lucian didn't answer right away. His mind still felt raw, like he was walking through someone else's dream. But the word home echoed with familiarity that wasn't his, yet belonged to the man whose body he now carried.
"Yes," he said at last, voice low.
The car cut through the city lights, pulling up before the Blackwell estate—a mansion carved of white stone and iron, proud but distant, like the family itself.
When he stepped inside, the silence greeted him again, colder than in the office. Chandeliers glittered overhead, but the warmth of a home was absent. A woman's footsteps echoed down the grand staircase.
"Lucian."
It was his mother. Isabella Blackwell. Graceful, poised, draped in a pale silk shawl, but her eyes told another story. Redness lingered at the corners, as if sleep had long abandoned her.
For a moment, Lucian forgot to breathe. The memories of the old Lucian surged—arguments, slammed doors, the bitter words he had spat at her in defense of Seraphina. A son choosing a woman which wasn't even his over his own mother.
His lips parted, but no sound came out. He wanted to explain—no, he wanted to apologize—but what apology could he give when he wasn't even her son?
"You came home early," Isabella said softly, studying him with a mixture of surprise and weariness. She didn't step closer. She didn't scold. She didn't smile. She simply… looked at him, as though waiting for another cruel remark that might come.
Lucian's throat tightened. "I… just wanted to come back."
The words felt clumsy, but Isabella blinked, caught off guard. For once, he hadn't said anything sharp.
"I'll have dinner sent to your room," she murmured, turning away before he could say more.
Lucian watched her retreating figure, guilt pressing heavy against his chest. He didn't deserve her kindness, not when the real Lucian had wounded her so deeply.
He climbed the stairs and entered the room that was now his. It was luxurious, but suffocating. The curtains were drawn, the desk a mess of unopened letters, few emptied bottles of whiskey lay there, and the bed unmade. Signs of a man who had lived in anger, not in peace, and certainly not sober.
Lucian shut the door behind him and leaned against it, finally letting the facade crack. He dragged both hands down his face and sank into the chair by the window.
"This… is too much," he whispered.
He couldn't bear the thought of facing his father or sister yet. He couldn't even bear the look in Isabella's eyes—eyes that wanted to hope, but no longer dared.
For now, all he could do was lock himself inside, with silence as his only companion.And so he did.