The mansion had long gone quiet, the laughter of Clara and the steady footsteps of Edward fading into silence. Only the faint ticking of the hall clock carried through the stillness.
Lucian lay sprawled across the bed, staring at the ceiling. His body felt heavy, his head pounding worse than it had in the office. His stomach churned. Sweat slicked his palms.
Then it hit him.
He bolted upright, stumbling to the bathroom just in time to retch violently into the sink. The taste of bile and liquor burned his throat, though he hadn't touched a drop since waking in this body. His chest heaved, his body shaking, as though it remembered what his mind rejected.
Leaning against the counter, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Pale. Hollow-eyed. His shirt clinging damply to his skin. This wasn't just exhaustion—this was the residue of years of abuse.
"…Damn it," he whispered hoarsely.
His throat was raw, his stomach still twisting. Instinctively, his gaze flicked to the corner cabinet above the sink. A faint memory surfaced—bottles hidden there, half-drunk, always within reach. His hand twitched before he even realized it, fingers curling with the ghost of habit.
The urge struck sharp and sudden. A drink. Just one sip to quiet the nausea, to still the shaking. His body screamed for it, though his mind recoiled.
"No."
He slammed the cabinet shut, breath ragged. For a moment, he gripped the sink so tightly his knuckles whitened, fighting against the temptation that wasn't even his.
The previous Lucian had drowned himself in whiskey, and now his body was chained to the craving. Even if he hadn't chosen it, he would have to fight it. Every night. Every weakness.
Collapsing back onto the bed, his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. The sheets felt suffocating, but he lacked the strength to move.
This is what I've inherited. Not just disgrace… but ruin, inside and out.
In the stillness, the weight of it settled over him—the failing body, the poisoned habits, the crumbling relationships. For the first time, the scale of the climb ahead felt real.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion dragging him under a single thought flickered in the haze:
If I let this body control me, I'll die as he did. If I want to survive… I have to fight it.
He had barely closed his eyes when a soft knock broke the silence.
"Lucian?"
His breath caught. Isabella, his mother.
For a second, he considered staying silent, pretending to be asleep. But the door creaked open anyway, and a sliver of warm light spilled into the room.
She stepped inside, shawl draped over her shoulders, a faint furrow creasing her brow. "I heard—are you unwell?"
Lucian sat up too quickly, regretting it instantly as a wave of nausea rolled through him. "…I'm fine," he muttered, voice hoarse.
Her gaze swept over him, lingering on his pale skin, the sheen of sweat, the tremor he couldn't quite suppress in his hands. Her lips pressed into a thin line, not of anger, but of quiet sorrow.
"You've been drinking again."
It wasn't a question.
Lucian froze. The memories of the old Lucian screamed—shouted arguments, slammed doors, his own bitter voice insisting she didn't understand him. Every time, she had been the one left standing in the wreckage.
"I—" He stopped, throat tightening. What excuse could he possibly give? That it wasn't really him? That he hadn't touched a drop, even though the body still reeked of its past?
Isabella set a glass of water on the nightstand, her movements precise, almost ritualistic, as though she had done this countless times. "I don't have the strength to scold you tonight," she said softly. "Just… take care of yourself, Lucian."
(This broke my heart while writing (╥﹏╥). )
Her hand lingered a moment on the edge of the bed, the faintest brush of comfort, before she withdrew. She didn't ask for promises. She didn't wait for explanations. She simply turned and left, closing the door with a quiet click.
Lucian stared at the water glass, his chest heavy.
"…I'm not him," he whispered into the darkness, though the words sounded weak even to his own ears.
His hand trembled as he reached for the glass, not from withdrawal alone, but from the weight of a truth that pressed harder than any craving:
The people this man had hurt were still here. And they still bore the scars.