Not enough to fill the silence. Not enough to drown out the emptiness chewing at the edges of his thoughts.
Elliot sat still in the leather armchair—scotch in hand, ice long since melted. The crystal glass hung loosely between his fingers, damp from the sweat of his palm. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight against the dying light outside. Shadows stretched and twisted along the walls, flickering with the flame. They moved like ghosts.
He hadn’t turned on the lamps. There was no need. The fire was enough. A small blaze that hissed and whispered, its light brushing over the old portraits, the heavy bookshelves, the pale white of the untouched grand piano in the corner.
"I told them not to disturb me," he muttered, voice low. "Not until she’s back."
The words didn’t echo. They just sank into the thick velvet carpet and heavier guilt.
The only thing left that mattered. The only living thread still tied to her.
He took a slow sip from the glass, but the scotch didn’t burn anymore. It slid down smooth, too familiar. He no longer drank to forget.
He drank to remember.
The fire snapped, a log collapsing inward. Embers lifted, dancing like dying stars.
His eyes didn’t leave the flames.
He remembered being younger. Remembered her laughter, hushed and fleeting. Not the polished laugh she wore in public, but the real one—soft and almost shy, as if it surprised even her. Back when they were just kids. Back when everything seemed just within reach.
He noticed everything.
The way she pressed her lips together when startled. The way her fingers twitched when she was thinking too hard. The way she always paused, just for a heartbeat, before entering a room, as if steadying herself for war.
Everyone saw the cold perfection. The sharp tongue. The precision.
He saw the warmth. The quiet care. The rare moments when her armor slipped and her soul peeked out.
She just didn’t know it yet.
He told his brother everything.
How he felt. How long he’d felt it. How he watched her from afar, always too afraid to step forward but always dreaming.
"She’s... impossible," Elliot had said once, half-laughing, half-drowning in it. "But when she smiles, it’s like the whole world pauses. It’s not fair."
His brother had just nodded. Listened. Smiled.
He should’ve known then.
When the engagement was announced, the world tilted. It happened over dinner. Polished silverware, crystal goblets, and words sharp as razors. His father had beamed. His mother had smiled that too-careful smile. And Elliot had just... stared.
Victoria and his brother.
He hadn’t eaten for days. Barely spoke. The hollowness had swallowed him.
He confronted him later—voice trembling, fists clenched.
"You knew," Elliot hissed. "You knew how I felt."
"I didn’t choose this," his brother had said quietly. "Father made the decision. I had no say."
"You always have a say," Elliot whispered. "You just didn’t care."
The betrayal tasted like rust.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
He wasn’t supposed to hear what came after. He wasn’t meant to be near the drawing room that night. But he was. And everything unraveled.
He was going to confront his father. That was the plan. The words were already burning in his throat, sharp and bitter. He’d rehearsed them for hours—about Victoria. About his brother. About the engagement and the betrayal that hollowed him out.
But then he heard it.
His voice. Low, angry. A knife buried in velvet.
"You think I don’t know?"
Elliot froze. Hand on the doorknob. Breath caught in his throat.
"You think I didn’t see it?" his father snarled. "All those years... sneaking around like a goddamn whore."
A slap cracked through the silence.
A cry followed. Thin. Fragile. Familiar.
"You cheated on me," he hissed. "You disgusting little thing. Think I wouldn’t find out?"
"Henry, please—" her voice trembled. Nothing like the woman who once tucked Elliot into bed, whispering lullabies when his nightmares got too loud.
"I got the test," his father spat. "You hear me? The test. That boy... he’s not even mine!"
The floor felt like it dropped out beneath Elliot.
The words wrapped around his throat. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. He just stood there, rooted to the spot, ears ringing.
"I won’t let that bastard son live happily while I rot in this house of lies!" the voice bellowed.
"No!" she sobbed. "No, please—don’t do this, Henry. Please—"
Furniture scraped. Glass shattered.
Elliot knew that sound.
Metal sliding. The gun.
His heart thudded once. Loud. Deafening.
"Please!" she cried. "Please, Henry. He’s your son. He’s ours—"
"Don’t—!" his father snapped.
But she was already grabbing for his hand.
It wasn’t loud. No screaming. No sudden shift in force.
Just a sharp movement.
A finger where it shouldn’t be.
Then her body collapsed in his father’s arms like a puppet with strings cut — her eyes wide in disbelief, her mouth trembling.
Blood began to bloom across her blouse.
"No..." his father breathed.
He sank with her to the floor, the gun falling from his hand, skittering across the hardwood.
"No, no, no—what have I—?"
Elliot stepped into the room.
His mother. The woman who read to him every night. Who hummed when she cooked. Who kissed his forehead when no one else did.
Now limp. Blood-soaked.
His father looked up.
The panic in his face twisted.
His grief mutated. Hardened.
Then came the voice. Sharp. Cold. Final.
"You... because of you! This is all because of you!"
The words struck harder than the gunshot.
He had spent so long longing for something he never dared to reach. So long pretending he had control. So long hiding behind silence.
Now silence was all he had left.
He finished the last sip of scotch and let the glass drop to the rug with a soft thud.
Somewhere behind the heavy walls of the mansion, men shouted. Footsteps. Echoes.
He stared into the fire as if it could answer something.
Celeste was all he had left.
He’d already lost one Ardent woman. He wouldn’t lose another.