Page 132 of Scarred in Silence

“You should’ve seen their faces,” Lucien says, smirking into his glass. “Verona’s lips were pressed so tight, I thought she was going to have a heart attack.”

“Oh, I bet,” Evelyn says, turning to me. “Did she do that thing where she wrinkles her nose like she smells rotting trash?”

I nod. “It’s her signature look. That, or pretending she’s about to faint at the mention of therapy.”

Dante snorts. “You mean your entire childhood?”

Lucien stiffens slightly beside me. I nudge his thigh with mine—subtle, just a reminder.

“She was the same,” I say, twirling my fork. “Said that I was screaming for attention.”

“Well, to be fair,” Evelyn says, raising an eyebrow. “You were wearing all black, with hair so pale you looked like the girl from The Ring on her revenge arc.”

“That’s the vibe,” I smirk.

Lucien kisses my temple like he’s proud of it. “She didn’t flinch. Not once.”

Dante finally speaks, low and amused.

“I still can’t believe you let him in the house like that. The last time Verona saw Lucien, she literally slapped a priest to get an exorcism scheduled.”

Evelyn bursts out laughing.

“No, no—remember the voicemail she left? ‘If you really loved your sister, you’d go to church to ask for forgiveness.’”

I cover my face with my hands, half-laughing, half-groaning. “Jesus Christ, you guys.”

Lucien grins like he’s enjoying every second of this.

“You did good,” Evelyn says seriously, her tone softening. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but that kind of confrontation—it’s not for them. It’s for you. And I’m proud of you.”

Something tightens in my chest. I shoot her a small smile. “Thanks. I actually feel lighter. Like I left something there.”

“Probably generational trauma,” Dante deadpans.

Lucien snorts into his wine.

“Honestly?” I say.

“It felt like slamming a door on a burning house. I don’t even care what burns with it.”

“You’re better off,” Lucien says quietly.

Evelyn leans her chin on her palm, watching me. “You seem more… I don’t know. Here. Like you’re finally in your own skin.”

“Because she is,” Lucien answers for me. “And she’s not running anymore.”

Dante raises his glass.

“To Astra. For putting bloodline narcissists in their place.”

I laugh and clink my glass against his.

“To finally saying ‘fuck you’ and meaning it.”

“To finally being free,” Evelyn adds, raising her own.

Lucien’s arm curls around my waist beneath the table. His fingers tap against my ribs like Morse code—some language only we speak.