The mansion was unusually lively that evening.
Fresh roses lined the grand staircase. Soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers. Staff hurried in and out of rooms like clockwork. Marie, in a pale lavender gown, floated through the halls with a gleam in her eyes — all signs something public was happening.
Zelda descended the stairs in a navy-blue slip dress, her hair tucked behind one ear. She could read the house like a seasoned script, and tonight was one of those evenings where she needed to smile, be gracious, and ask no questions.
Marie spotted her with a radiant smile. "Darling, perfect timing. The guests will arrive any minute."
Zelda blinked. "Guests?"
"The Marchesi family," Marie announced with a flourish. "They're back from Europe. And Marcella's with them. Isn't that just divine?"
Zelda's stomach sank.
Marcella.
Of course.
Perfect, practiced, passive-aggressive Marcella. The kind of girl who could compliment you and insult your ancestors in the same breath. It had been nearly a year since she left, and honestly, it had been bliss.
Still, Zelda managed a polite nod. "How lovely."
---
The dining hall had been transformed.
Crystal chandeliers shimmered over a polished table set for royalty — crystal glasses, gold-rimmed china, wine decanters catching the light. Zelda took her seat beside Ryan, who looked composed but still pale under the soft glow.
Berrett, ever casual, leaned back in his chair, swirling wine like he knew something the rest didn't.
Lucien's chair remained empty.
"For the record," Berrett muttered, leaning toward Zelda, "if she says something shady, I'm flipping the table."
The grand doors opened.
Marcella entered like a scene-stealer on a stage.
Her dress was pearl-white satin, cinched at the waist, her heels dagger-sharp. Dark curls flowed in soft waves, and her smile lit up — straight in Zelda's direction.
"Zelda!" she exclaimed.
Zelda stood with all the composure she could muster.
Marcella approached with that annoying air kiss routine — left cheek, right. No actual contact.
"You look radiant," she said, eyes dancing. "So... unbothered."
"Europe must have been good to you," Zelda returned smoothly.
Marcella laughed. "You know me — I chase art, romance, chaos."
She glanced past Zelda toward the entryway — as if someone else was meant to follow her entrance.
As if on cue, Lucien appeared.
He was in black. Sharp. Detached. His sleeves rolled up, his jaw clean-shaven. He entered without rush, surveying the table once — and for a second, his eyes caught Marcella's.
Zelda saw it.
So did Berrett.
"Great," he whispered. "The ghost lives."
Lucien took his place at the head of the table beside Marie, who welcomed him with a gentle smile and whispered something Zelda didn't catch.
Moments later, the Marchesi elders swept in with laughter and warmth, wine was poured, and the dinner began.
But Zelda had one eye on Marcella.
"Ryan," Marcella purred sweetly across the table, "I was so worried when I heard about the accident. I sent lilies, did you get them?"
"I did," Ryan said evenly. "They were… elegant."
"Oh good," she sighed theatrically. "I nearly flew back that night. But, you know, Italian hospitals… such a mess. I knew you were in better hands here."
Zelda stabbed her asparagus like it had insulted her.
Then Marcella leaned in again, voice silk-soft. "And you… you've been so loyal. Like a little guardian."
Zelda blinked. "Guardian?"
"You know," Marcella tilted her head, "like a puppy. Brave. Devoted."
Zelda smiled sweetly. "And you've always been such a fox. Still sly, I see."
Berrett choked on his wine.
Lucien's gaze shifted briefly toward them, unreadable.
---
After dinner, Zelda stepped out onto the terrace, moonlight bathing the marble in silver. The air was cool, but it didn't calm her.
She heard the heels before she saw her.
Marcella joined her, eyes scanning the garden, her reflection catching in the glass like a wraith.
"You haven't changed," Marcella murmured.
"Neither have you," Zelda replied, eyes on the fountain.
Marcella's voice turned curious. "Still close with Berrett?"
Zelda's brows lifted. "We're family."
"Yes, but it's all… unconventional, isn't it?" Marcella said lightly. "All those brothers. All that attention."
Zelda turned toward her. "What are you implying?"
Marcella stepped closer, her perfume sugary and sharp. "Just that it's easy to confuse comfort with love. Especially for someone like you. So… eager to belong."
Zelda's breath caught.
Marcella leaned in with a smile. "Be careful, Zelda. Some people mistake pity for passion. And some people," she added, glancing toward the trees, "like broken things more than they let on."
Zelda's tone was ice. "And you should be careful mistaking manipulation for friendship."
Marcella giggled. "Still fiery. Cute."
She turned and walked away, leaving behind the scent of roses and something darker.
---
Later that night, Zelda found Berrett raiding the kitchen, half-asleep, spoon in one hand, yogurt tub in the other.
"She's worse than I remember," Zelda muttered.
He grinned. "She called you a what again?"
"A puppy."
He snorted. "She's losing her touch."
Zelda leaned on the counter. "What's her deal with Lucien?"
Berrett's smirk faded. "They had a… history."
Zelda frowned. "Like… a real history?"
"The kind Marie prays didn't happen," he said. "But yeah. It was real."
Zelda stared at the fridge.
Berrett finally said, "Marcella doesn't come back unless there's something she wants. And she always wants the most expensive thing in the room."
"She's not my friend."
"Good. Keep it that way."
---
As Zelda headed to her room, the hallway was quiet — until Lucien appeared at the other end.
She hesitated. "Lucien."
He paused.
"Did you know she was coming?"
"Yes."
"Are you okay?"
His eyes were cold, unreadable. "She's just another ghost."
Zelda didn't know what he meant.
But for the first time, she wasn't sure which one of them he was warning.