…He reached for it.
A photograph. Faded.
A boy of fifteen—himself—standing stiffly in a pressed black suit. Next to him, clinging tightly to his leg, was a small child in pale blue. Barely three years old. Big eyes, soft curls, and a confused look that hadn't understood what death meant yet.
Noel.
The funeral had been cold.
No music. No genuine mourning. Just the sound of heels against stone and whispered condolences that meant nothing. Gregory Alden, ever the portrait of composure, hadn't shed a single tear. His posture rigid, jaw locked. A man who saw grief as weakness—an inconvenience.
Lorraine's casket had been simple, despite her beauty and grace. That was Gregory's doing. He'd insisted on "dignity," on "restraint." But Vincent had seen it for what it was—detachment. Control. A need to make even death submit to his version of perfection.
Vincent had held Noel's hand the entire time. Tiny fingers gripping his with such desperate force that he couldn't even feel his own.
That night, Noel had crawled into his bed and whispered, "Is Mama sleeping?"
Vincent had replied, without blinking, "Yes. She's just tired."
He never told him the truth. Maybe he never would.
Even now, so many years later, Noel still carried something soft in him. An innocence that refused to crack, despite growing up in the same lifeless mansion. Where the chandeliers glittered like frost, and the silence was louder than any scream.
Vincent sometimes avoided his brother—not out of dislike, but fear.
Fear that if he got too close, he'd ruin him.
He was raised by a man who taught him silence was strength, love was indulgence, and perfection was the bare minimum.
And yet, there had been Lorraine.
Warm, musical Lorraine. A former pianist who once filled the grand halls with melody, laughter, and color. Vincent remembered sitting under her piano bench, tracing the movements of her slippered foot as she played, wondering how someone could make sadness sound so beautiful.
She had been everything Gregory wasn't.
Which is likely why she died first.
Some said it was illness. Some whispered overdose. Others blamed stress. But Vincent knew. His mother died the day she gave up fighting Gregory's expectations. She wilted under the weight of them until there was nothing left to save.
And when she was gone, so was the music.
Vincent never played the piano again.
The next day, Vincent left his apartment early, hoping to clear his thoughts in the quiet of the graduate library. But fate had other ideas.
He passed the east courtyard just in time to see her—Elle—seated on a stone bench. A pale figure with a book in her lap, her fingers idly flipping a page. The late morning sun caught in her hair, soft and ash-brown, making her look almost fragile in the glow.
A familiar voice tried to cut through that stillness.
Kai Lennox.
He stood a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to strike up a conversation—probably about the class, or lunch, or something equally trivial.
Elle didn't recoil. But she didn't smile either.
She answered calmly. Briefly.
Vincent stood half-hidden in the shadow of the corridor's arch, observing. Not because he cared about Kai's advances, but because he was… curious. About her.
She nodded once, stood with her bag, and walked away without looking back.
Kai sighed and muttered something under his breath before walking the other direction, frustration clear in his posture.
Vincent's lips twitched into something resembling a smirk. Not because Kai failed, but because Elle didn't bite.
Later that day, in the psychology department corridor, Vincent was heading toward the staircase when he turned the corner—and nearly collided with someone.
She took a step back. Elle.
He blinked, startled for once.
"Oh," she said, voice cool and clear. "I didn't see you."
He stood straighter, the shift in him almost imperceptible to anyone else—but inside, it was a storm.
She smelled faintly of old paper and lavender. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, he was certain she could see something in him—something he'd never let anyone else see.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
Vincent stared.
She wasn't asking like others did—out of politeness. There was no softness in her voice. Just a direct, honest question. No pretense.
"I'm fine," he replied. "Distracted, maybe."
She gave a slight nod. "You looked like you were thinking very hard."
There was a beat of silence between them. Not awkward—just still.
He noticed how she tilted her head ever so slightly when listening. How her lashes didn't flutter nervously like most girls. How she stood perfectly centered, like she didn't need to shrink herself to disappear—she just was invisible by nature.
"I was," he said quietly. "Thinking, that is."
"About something important?"
He considered lying.
Instead, he offered the truth—but wrapped in shadow.
"Something that used to matter. But now… I'm not so sure."
She looked at him, and for the briefest moment, Vincent felt something break in his carefully built exterior. Not a crack—but a breath.
Elle didn't press further. She simply said, "Sometimes things stop mattering. Doesn't mean they never did."
And with that, she turned and walked away.
He stood there long after she left.
Everything about her lingered: her voice, her posture, the faint crease in her brow when she listened too intently. He found her entire existence strangely pleasant—like walking through a dreamscape filled with barbed wire.
Beautiful, sharp, quiet.
And the worst part?
She had no idea what she was doing to him.
He smiled to himself—just a little—and whispered under his breath,
"What are you, Elle Deveraux?"
Back at his apartment that night, Vincent sat on the piano bench. The same one his mother used to occupy. Dust lined the keys.
He didn't press them.
Just sat.
Above him hung a portrait of the Alden family—painted in oil, cold and flawless. Gregory at the center, Lorraine at his side. A younger Vincent. A baby Noel in his mother's arms.
Vincent looked up at it, then down at his own hands.
Gregory wanted perfection. Lorraine had wanted peace. Vincent had become the ghost of both—too rigid to be soft, too wounded to be whole.
And Noel?
Noel was the only untouched thing left in that bloodline.
Vincent would burn before letting anyone poison that boy. Including himself.
But Elle…
Elle made him feel something close to want. Not lust. Not obsession. But a hunger to be seen—and not judged. Just seen.
And that, he thought, was far more dangerous.