The corridors of the Blackwell estate were always hushed at night, as though the walls themselves guarded secrets too heavy to bear daylight. Clara moved lightly through them, her heels tapping against the marble, her mind still circling numbers and contracts long after the boardroom had emptied.
She was not looking for him. Not consciously. She told herself she was only passing through the hall toward her study, only checking one last report before allowing herself sleep. But when she reached the corner, the faint glow of lamplight caught her eye.
The library door was ajar.
Her steps slowed.
It had been years since she'd paused here, years since she had seen anything other than shadows and the bitter reek of alcohol pouring from that room inside it. In her memory, the sight of her bend over the desk was always blurred by empty bottles and glassy eyes.
But tonight—
Clara stopped short, hidden just beyond the doorframe.
Inside, Isabella stood with her usual poise, the faint spill of lamplight softening the sharp lines of her figure. Across from her, Lucian stood beside the desk, sleeves rolled, posture steady. His pen was set aside, his gaze steady toward their mother. His expression was calm, his tone quiet—too low for Clara to catch—but the silence between them was not heavy.
It was… peaceful.
Isabella's face, so often composed into a mask, was softer in that light, her eyes settled firmly on her son. No disappointment, no sharpness, none of the tense patience Clara had grown used to seeing whenever they argued. Only a stillness, fragile and almost tender.
Clara's chest tightened.
Her eyes shifted to Lucian. He was thinner than he had once been, paler, his frame still bearing the weight of years wasted on decline. But his gaze—oh, his gaze was different. It wasn't the dull glaze of a man drowning, nor the frantic, self-destructive gleam she had despised.
It was steady. Focused. Alive.
For an instant, the memory of another time pressed hard against her chest: her brother as he had once been, before everything unraveled. Lucian, the heir who carried himself with unshakable confidence, the one who would laugh easily, who dared to love fiercely, who looked at the world as though nothing could stand in his way. His eyes had been bright then, firm and full of life.
And now—after so long—she caught a glimpse of them again.
Her throat clenched, breath tightening until she had to press a hand against the wall for balance. The sight struck something raw inside her, a chord she had buried beneath anger and exhaustion.
She had stripped him of his position, she had spoken sharp words, built walls of cruelty not out of hate but out of despair. It was easier to condemn him than to admit how much it hurt to watch him waste away.
But tonight, standing in the shadow of that half-open door, Clara felt the suffocating weight of longing.
Finally, she thought, the word echoing painfully in her mind. Maybe… maybe I'll see those eyes again. The brother I lost.
Her fingers curled tightly against her palm, nails biting into skin, as though grounding herself in the present. She could not step into that room, could not risk disturbing the fragile air between mother and son. Not yet.
So she stayed in the hallway, silent witness to a moment she was not part of, but which seared itself into her all the same.
When Isabella finally turned and left, the door closing gently behind her, Clara slipped away before Lucian could notice her presence. Her steps were quick, her composure tight, as though afraid someone might read her expression if she lingered too long.
Only when she reached the solitude of her study did she allow herself to stop, to press a trembling hand against her chest. Her breath shook once before she forced it steady.
It was foolish to hope. Foolish to want. She knew better than anyone how fragile he had become, how easily he might slip again. Yet hope coiled in her chest anyway, stubborn and unyielding.
For the first time in years, Clara dared to believe that the ruin was not permanent.
And that perhaps, just perhaps, she had not lost her brother entirely.