The Deveraux family library was silent, save for the soft patter of rain against the tall arched windows. Elle sat curled into the corner of the wide velvet reading chair, her legs tucked beneath her, a worn leather-bound book resting open in her lap. The scent of old parchment, wood polish, and rain blended into something nostalgic.
She had wandered in here to escape the dull ache that had taken residence in her chest all morning. Something about today felt heavier than usual.
Her fingers drifted across the shelves without thinking—books her parents once touched, perhaps. She pulled one at random, expecting more dusty fiction, but instead, a smaller, thinner notebook slid out behind it and dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
Frowning, Elle picked it up.
A diary.
The name etched on the first page made her throat tighten.
Isabelle Ravenswood
September 3rd, 1995
Her mother.
Elle stared at the name, her heart pounding as if it recognized it more than her eyes did. Slowly, reverently, she opened it.
"Day 1: I never imagined I'd be writing this, but Professor Avery told me it helps to write things down. Maybe it'll help me breathe through the chaos of college life. Maybe it'll help me process this strange feeling I get when I sit next to him…"
Her hands trembled. Page after page, her mother's soft and articulate writing painted a vivid picture: her days as a finance student, her humble beginnings as an orphan… and him.
Alaric Deveraux.
Elle had never known how exactly her parents met. The world had always simply told her they were in love.
But here, in her mother's own words, the story unfurled.
"Alaric Deveraux. He's... intense. Quiet, but intimidating. People whisper about him when he walks into class. He always sits at the back, scribbling notes furiously. But today, he helped me pick up my papers when I tripped outside the lecture hall. He smiled. It was brief… but it stayed with me."
Elle read with her heart cracking open. Each word carved deeper into the hollowness she'd always carried since losing them. She saw her mother through fresh eyes—gentle, shy, endlessly grateful—and her father, once cold and fearsome, revealed as human beneath his iron gaze.
As she turned the fragile pages of her mother's diary, Elle's breath hitched when she found a passage dated just months before her birth:
"Sometimes, I see the shadows behind Alaric's eyes—the man he once was. But love… love changed him. He no longer raises his hand in anger, nor does he seek vengeance on those who wrong me. Yet, there are whispers. The boy who sent shivers down the spines of men. I pray no one finds out. The missing boys… the ones who threatened me, who followed me… they vanished. I never asked. I never will. But I know. My Alaric would burn the world to keep me safe."
Elle froze. The air in the library thickened.
She had always known her father was fiercely protective. But this—this hinted at something deeper. Something far darker.
The stories in the papers… the "unsolved" cases of young men going missing from the university Isabelle once attended. Some bodies were found later. Others never turned up. Whispers of internal injuries, signs of beatings, strange disappearances—all swept under the rug.
And all of them were men known to have harassed Isabelle Ravenswood.
Elle's fingers trembled as she read on. The next page held only a single line:
"To be loved by a man like Alaric Deveraux is to live in a world where harm dares not enter, and danger disappears without a trace."
And then came the entries about Theodore, her grandfather, and Edric—young, loyal, brave. Her mother had adored them.
Her lips parted when she read about the marriage proposal.
"Alaric asked me to be his wife today. I couldn't believe it. He stood in front of me, hands shaking for the first time I've ever seen. He told me he would choose me over everything—his inheritance, his name, the world. I said yes."
A tear dropped onto the page.
Elle blinked through the blur as the story turned bittersweet. Theodore's initial disapproval. Alaric's silent rebellion. And finally, acceptance, the grand wedding, and the short happiness before Theodore passed.
She turned the next page, and her breath caught.
It was about her.
"Eight months later, our baby girl arrived. Elle. Her name means light, and she is everything her name promises. Alaric cried holding her. I'd never seen him cry before. She has his grey eyes. And when she looks at me, I swear the world slows down."
Elle pressed the diary to her chest.
The ache inside her pulsed like an old wound reopening. She remembered none of this—only the sharp, unbearable void they'd left behind. Her memories of them were fragments. But this diary… this was her mother's heart speaking directly to her.
And then came the last entry.
"We're going to the Whitmore estate tonight. A charity gala. Elle insisted on wearing the blue dress with the silver bow. She looks like a princess. Alaric teased me about my nerves—he still makes me laugh. I don't know what the future holds. But tonight, I feel whole."
Elle's vision clouded.
The next thing she knew, the diary had slipped from her fingers, and she was standing—staggering—across the room.
She grabbed the edge of the tall bookshelf, her mind spiraling into a memory she hadn't summoned in years.
A flash of rain.
Shattered glass.
Her mother's blood on her dress.
Flashback: The Accident
The road had been slick. Elle, only ten, had fallen asleep against her mother's arm in the back seat. Martha's husband—gentle Mr. Harold—was driving. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and wet asphalt.
Then, without warning, headlights.
A horn.
A scream.
The world tilted, spun, and exploded.
Elle jolted awake, shocked by the sudden rolling of the car, her voice caught in her throat. her ears were ringing. Her mother's hand was pressed against her cheek.
"Elle…" Isabelle whispered, blood at the corner of her lips. "Everything's alright, baby… it will be fine. Just… move away from the vehicle. Protect yourself."
She couldn't utter a word, she just clung to her mother.
"Go!" Isabelle had said, stronger now. "Go!"
And Elle, trembling, had crawled out of the wreckage, her small hands cut and dirty, her cries swallowed by the storm.
She had watched in horror as the front of the car—where her father and Harold had sat—crumbled further.
By the time help arrived, there was nothing left but twisted metal and silence.
Elle sank to the floor of the library now, gasping.
She remembered everything.
Later that evening, Martha found her curled beside the fireplace, the diary held tightly in her hands.
"Oh, darling…" Martha whispered, kneeling beside her.
Elle looked up, her voice hoarse. "Why didn't anyone tell me… how much they loved each other? How happy they were?"
"We wanted to," Martha said softly. "But grief buries truth sometimes. And your father… he was a complex man, Elle. He changed for your mother. For you."
Elle stared into the flames.
"I think… I understand him better now."
Martha gently tucked a blanket around her. "They would be proud of you."
But Elle said nothing. She only clutched the diary tighter, her fingers trembling as she made a silent vow—I'll protect what you built.
Even if it means walking through fire.