Eris had not meant to come here.
And yet, she stood before the house—the one she had once called prison.
Eris stood beneath the curling ironwork of the gate; her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her satchel. The porch still bore the flowers his mother-in-law tended. Even the scent in the air—lavender and old clay—was the same.
This had been her home, but she always treated it a house. It seems unguarded, but an unwelcome entrance will release a sound waking the trained butlers.
Her hand hovered just above the polished brass gate latch. The house beyond stood grand and immaculately kept—an estate of old wealth, not gaudy but dignified, with tall, arched windows framed in dark oak and ivy carefully trained along cream-colored stone. The gravel path curved in a perfect crescent toward a veranda lined with carved pillars, and the ironwork of the balcony railings gleamed under the fading light.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching to reach for the button nestled in the tall gatepost.
But shame held her back.
She stood before the estate's wrought-iron gates instead. She imagined the sound of the ring—how it would echo across the marbled foyer, how the housekeeper might pause her steps, how Lucian might look up from the high-backed armchair in the sitting room, his expression unreadable. Stern, perhaps. Or worse—welcoming. Eris wasn't sure which would hurt more. Her chest tightened.
It wasn't a home where tricks can pave a secret entrance.
Her hand hovered near the brass button set into the smooth marble column beside the gate. Just one touch, and the gentle chime would sound inside—one she used to hear and ignore when it sounds for someone else.
But now, it might summon him. Or worse, not.
She let her arm drop.
She couldn't bring herself to press.
So, she sat instead—on the low stone edge of the garden wall just outside—hands clenched between her knees, eyes on the gravel path that led to the door. Her throat burned with shame. She had once walked that path with a suitcase, not looking back. And now, she didn't know what she expected.
She did not move.
She only waited.
Lucian--- From the shadows beyond the street, just far enough to remain unseen, studied the way she hesitated—the way she lingered in front of the house that always been hers.
And for a moment, he hoped.
Hoped she would press.
But when she did not— when minutes passed, stretching into an hour, and she remained still— Lucian could wait no longer.
Swift yet careful, he took the side path that led behind the wall, looping around to the house's rear entrance. Quiet steps. Familiar steps.
From the east wing window, Lucian saw her before the gates.
For a heartbeat, he froze.
Then, heart pounding, he turned and strode quickly through the hall, past the antique mirror and ancestral portraits, past the quiet drawing room where his mother napped. His footsteps quickened as he reached the marble-walled vestibule where the security panel waited, where without appearing the gate can be opened.
He punched in the code and rushed down the stone steps.
But by the time the gate starts to open, she choose to walk away.
He reached the porch and saw an empty entrance.
Eris.
He almost called her name.
But the words stuck in his throat.
He ran once more, the fastest, and saw only her back.
She never turned.
He watched her disappear down the hill road, her steps not hurried, but weighted. He stood there a long while, the open gate yawning behind him, the silence settling like dust.
---
The sky had already begun to dim when Eris reached the old neighborhood—quiet, modest, tucked between rows of sycamore trees and sun-worn fences. The familiarity of it struck her harder than she expected. The chipped paint on the gate, the crooked garden gnome still watching from the base of the porch steps —it all ached with memory.
Her father opened the door before she knocked.
The scent of garlic, detergent, and dried jasmine greeted her like an old quilt.
There was a beat—longer than silence, shorter than speech—where he simply looked at her. Her hair was wind-tossed, her eyes red at the edges but dry, and her face carried a thousand words she hadn't said.
Behind him, her mother appeared. The air between them bristled with unspoken things: the scandal, the fear, the near escape with the man she had almost ruined everything for.
But they said none of it.
Her father stepped aside.
Eris walked in.
Her mother didn't speak either, though her mouth pressed thinly as she took in the sight of her daughter's tear-traced cheeks and trembling fingers. Instead, she turned away and went to the kitchen.
Her father stepped forward quietly, took the overnight luggage from her, and set it on her room. Then, without a word, she followed inside, toward the living room where her favorite beige couch still in the middle.
Eris sank into it like a wave collapsing. She didn't speak.
Her parents didn't push.
Her mother came in after a moment, placed a warm mug of coffee on the low table in front of her, and her father returned with a food and a blanket, placed the plate on and draped the blanket over her shoulders.
And then—they left her alone.
No words.
No anger.
Just silence.
Eris sat in silence, the house wrapping around her like an old, uncomfortable coat. She did not eat right away. She simply sat there, in the quiet, the smell of bitter coffee rising between her fingers.
And again, she allowed herself to feel the weight of what she'd done—and what she hadn't.
And her parents, in their quiet, unflinching love, let her.