Ch-24

•~•Aziel’s POV

I take it back.

I should have told her everything last night.

Not confessing was a mistake. A fucking stupid one.

If I had just laid it all out—every truth, every lie, every secret—maybe we wouldn’t be here.

She’d still hate me, but at least she would have thought twice before pulling this reckless stunt. Before throwing Irene Lancaster’s name in my mother’s face.

Before inviting her to a dinner meant to honor the death of the girl she used to be.

But it was too late now.

She had thrown blood into the water.

And my mother was a wolf. A beast who thrived on power, control, and secrets.

Now that she had caught the scent of something deeper, something hidden, she wouldn’t stop until she tore it apart—bone by bone.

I had to stop this before it spiraled into something neither of us could control. But first, I needed to know why Irene did this.

Was it because I told her the girl I loved was named Irene? Was that all it took? Had that one slip made her suspect I knew the truth about her identity?

Damn it.

I should have seen this coming. That’s why I bugged her damn phone—to stay one step ahead.

Yet somehow, I hadn’t picked up anything. No calls. No texts. Nothing remotely suspicious. Just…nothing.

My frown deepened. Could it have been a glitch? Some technical issue? Or… had she figured it out?

A slow, uneasy chill crawled up my spine.

If she knew I had her phone bugged, then this wasn’t just reckless defiance. It was a move. A calculated one. But just how well calculated… I wasn’t sure.

My jaw tightened as my gaze lifted to the massive portrait hanging in the center of the Lancaster estate’s grand dining hall.

There she was—the face I remembered. The face that no longer existed.

Soft, delicate features. Warm, knowing eyes. The gentle curve of her lips. Chestnut waves framing her face.

A face untouched by time, by pain, by all that happened that night five years ago.

"Beautiful, isn’t she?"

The voice pulled me from my thoughts.

I turned—Celeste, Irene’s mother, stood beside me, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips.

I gave a quiet hum, a thoughtless sound that barely left my throat.

She sighed, then patted my shoulder—light, brief, yet strangely familiar. “Come,” she said. “We should join the others.”

I met her gaze with a small smile. “After you, Mrs. Lancaster.”

She didn’t correct me. Didn’t ask me to call her Mom, the way my mother had wanted Irene to.

I supposed she preferred to keep a quiet distance between us, an unspoken line neither of us intended to cross.

“Of course,” she murmured, turning smoothly on her heel.

I followed, my fingers steady on the wheelchair’s controls as I moved forward.

The dining hall glowed with warm, golden light, the chandelier’s brilliance reflecting off crystal glasses and polished silverware.

The table was long, grand—yet suffocating under the weight of those seated around it. My mother. Irene. Zane Lancaster.

Irene sat near the head of the table beside Zane. She looked… unbothered. Or at least, she wanted to.

Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass, her expression carefully blank.

Celeste took her seat beside Irene, and I rolled into place across from her, beside my mother—A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she swirled the dark red liquid in her glass.

“Where were you, dear? We almost started dinner without you.” Her voice was silk over steel.

I met her gaze evenly. “Just taking a tour. This house is so big, so magnificent… I almost forgot where I was for a moment.”

A light chuckle left my lips—casual on the surface, but beneath it, my mind was already moving, calculating.

My mother tilted her head, her smile deepening. “How unlike you, Nathaniel.” She tapped a finger against the stem of her glass.

I didn’t blink. “You’re right, Mom. But I guess even I get lost in beauty sometimes.”

A moment of silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken tension, before Zane cleared his throat with practiced ease. “Well, now that we’re all here, shouldn’t we start?”

“Of course,” my mother said smoothly, setting her glass down with a soft clink.

Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she added, “But first, Zane—what a thoughtful gesture. Inviting us to share a meal on such a… significant night.”

Zane met her gaze without wavering, his fingers laced together as he leaned slightly forward.

“It’s only right,” he said. “Tonight marks five years since we lost my daughter. We usually observe it as a family, so it felt only fitting to invite you and Nathaniel—now that he’s married to my niece.”

Beside him, Celeste gave a small nod. “Before we eat, we should pray.”

Zane gave a small nod before bowing his head, and the rest of us followed. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

A quiet murmur of Amen rippled through the table.

His voice remained steady as he spoke. “Lord, we gather tonight in remembrance of your daughter, Irene Lancaster. We ask that you grant her peace, that her soul may rest in your eternal embrace…”

“…Though her time with us was brief, may we find comfort and honor her memory—not with sorrow, but with gratitude for the time we had with her. Amen.”

Another quiet murmur of Amen followed.

Celeste exhaled softly and gave a small nod. “Let’s eat.”

Dishes were passed around, wine glasses filled. The faint clinking of silverware against plates echoed through the room, yet beneath it, a charged silence lingered.

Irene had barely moved, her fingers still tracing the rim of her wine glass. She wasn’t avoiding my mother’s gaze—but she wasn’t meeting it either.

My mother, however, was watching her carefully. Calculating.

Then, in that slow, deliberate way of hers, she picked up her glass, took a sip, and shifted her gaze to Celeste.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I’m a little curious… Your daughter, how did she die?” she said.

Her tone was too casual—like she was merely noting the table setting rather than tearing open an old wound.

Celeste’s hand halted mid-motion, her knife barely pressing into the meat on her plate. From where I sat, I caught the flicker in her eyes—sharp, but gone in an instant. Still, her face remained eerily composed.

Across the table, Zane set his fork down with slow precision, his gaze locking onto my mother’s. The air grew heavier, thick and suffocating, before he finally spoke.

“You mean how she was taken from us,” he corrected, his voice even but edged with something dark.

My mother hummed, swirling the wine in her glass. “Of course. A tragedy, truly. Such a young, promising life… gone so soon.”

Irene’s fingers stilled against her wine glass. Lifting it, she took a small sip before setting it down. Then, she met my mother’s gaze.

“Suicide.”