Days flew by quietly after Ara's confrontation with Adrian. Since that day, he hadn't come home again.
Today, Ara decided to visit her father.
When she arrived at the Everhart mansion, the familiar sight of its grandeur filled her with a strange mix of warmth and resentment. In her past life, she hadn't visited even once after her marriage—too angry, too determined to cut off the family who had forced her into that union with Adrian. But now, as she stood in front of those gates again, the ache of memories pressed against her chest.
The servants bowed as she stepped inside. Her heels echoed sharply on the marble floor as she made her way through the wide hallway. Everything looked the same—elegant, polished, but cold.
In the living room, her stepmother Morgana sat with her usual circle of "friends," the kind of women who thrived on gossip disguised as polite chatter. Their laughter was light and false, the sound of practiced sweetness.
Morgana looked up, startled at first, then quickly replaced her expression with her perfect social smile.
"Oh, dear Ara, come here," she called out in a tone dripping with fake warmth.
Ara didn't even glance her way. Her stride was calm, confident, and laced with quiet arrogance as she headed toward the stairs.
"You decided to visit us after so long, I see," Morgana said again, this time with a strained laugh.
Ara remained silent, her indifference cutting deeper than any words.
A few of the women exchanged looks. One of them leaned toward another and whispered, not quite softly enough,
"Is that the stepdaughter you're always praising? She doesn't seem very well-mannered."
Another chuckled. "I heard rumors about her husband. Some say he's an older, mysterious businessman—maybe even decades older. Perhaps that's why she's acting so defensive."
Ara stopped halfway up the staircase. The air stilled. She turned slowly, her eyes cold and unreadable.
"I don't recall being introduced to you," she said evenly, her tone calm but laced with quiet disdain. "But it's bold of strangers to gossip about someone they've never met."
The women blinked, caught off guard. One tried to laugh. "Oh, we were only teasing—"
Ara cut her off, her lips curving faintly—not a smile, but something sharper.
"Then perhaps next time, you should learn when to stop before your jokes embarrass you instead."
A hush fell over the room.
Morgana's painted smile twitched. "Ara, that's no way to speak to guests," she said, trying to sound gentle but failing to hide her irritation.
Ara's gaze shifted to her stepmother, calm and steady. "Guests?" she repeated softly. "You mean the kind who sit in your living room and insult your family while sipping your tea? If that's your definition of guests, Mother, you really should choose them more carefully."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then came the inevitable whisper:
"Oh my," one woman said under her breath, "she's quite rude, isn't she?"
"Completely disrespectful," another added. "I could never speak that way to my stepmother."
Morgana's face stiffened. She forced a tight laugh, though the humiliation in her eyes was clear. "Ara must be tired," she murmured weakly. "She didn't mean it like that."
But the damage was done. Her perfect image of the obedient, sweet stepdaughter had just shattered in front of her so-called friends.
Morgana forced a brittle laugh, trying to hide the humiliation. Ara's father and brothers had always encouraged her to stand tall, speak her mind, and never bow to false authority — and it showed.
Without another glance, Ara turned and continued up the stairs, her expression cool, her steps unhurried.
Behind her, the murmurs resumed—softer now, edged with gossip and pity. Morgana's carefully built façade cracked under the weight of their amusement, and though she tried to laugh along, her fingers trembled around her teacup.
Ara didn't look back.
Ara ascended the stairs without sparing another glance at the women below. Their voices rose behind her in a low hum — snide whispers wrapped in false laughter — but she no longer cared to listen. Let them gossip. Let them choke on their own ignorance.
None of them knew the truth about Adrian. Not Morgana, not Vivienne, not any of those pretentious socialites who fed on other people's misfortunes. They all believed the same rumor — that Ara had been married off to some old, faceless man of wealth, a convenient way to get her out of their way and out of their lives.
They thought they'd won.
But in reality, the only ones who knew Adrian's true identity were Ara, her father, and her brothers. They didn't bother clarifying the truth, not because they couldn't — but because none of them saw the point. Sometimes silence was the sharpest form of revenge. And letting others wallow in their delusions? That was a satisfaction all its own.
When Ara reached her bedroom, she paused at the door.
For a long moment, she simply stared.
The room was completely changed.
The walls, once a soothing shade of light blue with a hint of lavender — colors she had chosen herself — were now painted a pale, sugary pink. Her old Sofia-the-First decorations had vanished, replaced by glossy, Cinderella-themed ornaments that glimmered under the light. The space that once felt like her quiet refuge now looked like a dollhouse designed to please someone else's taste.
Ara stepped inside, her heels sinking slightly into the plush, rose-colored rug. Her eyes swept across the room — the glittering curtains, the porcelain figurines, the perfectly folded bed sheets. Everything screamed manufactured sweetness.
It was so unlike her that it almost made her laugh.
Almost.
Instead, a slow, bitter smile curved her lips.
Someone had gone through a lot of effort to erase her presence — to scrub away the traces of the girl who once lived here, to replace her with something delicate, pliant, harmless.
She already had a very good idea whose doing this was.
And that person clearly didn't realize what a mistake they'd made.
Ara brushed her fingertips along the edge of the vanity table, her eyes glinting in the mirror's reflection. "So this is how you want to play," she murmured softly, almost to herself.
The room, once her sanctuary, now felt like a challenge — a silent insult painted in pink and wrapped in lace.
She took one last look around, her expression unreadable. Then her smile deepened, cool and deliberate.
She would ask about it later — and when she did, whoever had dared to meddle with what was hers would regret it.