The doors of the Moreau Legal Office swung open with a hiss of cold air, swallowing Aria into a world where the walls smelled faintly of old leather, varnish, and bloodless negotiations.
The receptionists behind the marble desk didn't ask who she was.
They didn't need to.
The black of her suit — crisp, severe, and unadorned — said everything.
Not flashy.
Not weak.
Just... inevitable.
A woman led her down a long, silent corridor lined with frosted glass.
Aria's footsteps echoed once, twice, swallowed quickly by the hush.
Ahead, the conference room loomed — a massive paneled door already ajar.
Inside, the wolves were already circling.
Isabelle sat at the head of the polished table, spine straight, chin tilted as if claiming royalty by posture alone.
Selene perched to her right, thumb flicking mindlessly at her phone screen under the table, a queen-in-waiting who had never been promised a throne.
Juliet sat rigidly, too pale under too much makeup, her hands wringing the hem of her mourning dress like a nervous child playing at grief.
Lucas leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his jaw set in a scowl that broadcasted his contempt across the room.
Their whispers scattered like dry leaves as Aria stepped through the threshold.
For a heartbeat, silence crushed everything.
Then Isabelle smiled — tight, cold, the kind reserved for a fox cornered by something it doesn't quite recognize.
"You're late," she said.
Aria didn't reply.
She moved to the chair farthest from them, near the window where pale morning light bled across the floor in tired streaks.
Noel was already there, standing just behind her seat — silent, hands clasped loosely at his back. A shadow loyal only to her.
For a moment, just a moment, Aria allowed herself to breathe.
Then the senior lawyer — a tall, lean man with reading glasses and a voice made for courtroom deaths — cleared his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "thank you for attending.
Per Mr. Vincent Moreau's final instructions, we are gathered today for the formal execution of his last will and testament."
He opened a thick leather folder.
Pages rustled.
The air shifted.
Someone — Juliet — stifled a nervous cough.
The lawyer read slowly at first, his voice steady and expression blank:
Small properties first — vacation homes, art pieces, antique cars — divided neatly among Isabelle and her children.
A trust fund, left to Lucas, "in honor of his service to the family."
A rare string of pearls — Aria recognized the description — bequeathed to Selene.
Small things.
Tidy things.
The family relaxed minutely, the tension stretching thin across the lacquered table.
Isabelle's nails tapped once against her coffee cup.
Selene checked her reflection in the back of a polished spoon.
Juliet sagged, exhaling.
Lucas smirked, glancing at Aria as if to say, See?
See how little you matter?
And then the pages turned.
And the world cracked in half.
"Effective immediately," the lawyer said, voice unchanged, "Vincent Moreau hereby bequeaths seventy percent of his estate, including controlling interest and full executive authority of Moreau Corporation, to his biological daughter — Aria Moreau."
The room fractured like glass under a hammer.
Isabelle stood up so fast her chair scraped across the marble floor with a shriek.
"That's impossible," she snapped, voice shaking between rage and disbelief.
"That's... that's fraudulent!"
Selene gasped, hand flying to her mouth, fingers trembling.
Juliet made a choked noise — a sound like an animal caught in a trap — and slumped sideways, knocking her chair to the floor with a crash.
Lucas surged to his feet, fists clenched at his sides.
"You think this is real?" he barked at the lawyers.
"You think we're going to just sit here and—"
The lawyer didn't blink.
"Mr. Moreau's directives were clear, legally validated, and witnessed under oath six months ago."
He slid a stack of notarized papers across the table as if laying a blade at their feet.
Isabelle's hands trembled — but she didn't reach for them.
She couldn't.
Because reaching would mean admitting it was true.
The flashbulbs outside sparked against the frosted glass.
Reporters.
Cameras.
The scent of blood already leaking through the cracks.
Aria sat perfectly still.
Back straight.
Hands folded neatly in her lap.
Expression unreadable.
Inside, the ground tilted sideways — but she held.
Because this was what she had prepared for.
Because this was why she had survived.
"The transfer of assets and authority will proceed immediately," the lawyer continued, calm as ever,
"pending formal board ratification.
However, per Mr. Moreau's final letter, the designated successor assumes operational command as of today."
He paused.
Looked directly at Aria.
"Congratulations, Miss Moreau."
The table froze.
Even the breath of the room seemed to die.
Isabelle's eyes — those cold, sharpened things Aria had seen sneering over wine glasses her entire life — filled with something close to real hatred.
"You won't keep it," she hissed, voice low and venomous.
"None of it."
Aria tilted her chin slightly.
Met her gaze without blinking.
And said — cool, soft, devastating:
"Watch me."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Lucas slammed his fists into the table, sending water glasses scattering, and stormed out, the heavy door slamming behind him.
Selene burst into loud, ugly sobs — the kind meant to draw attention, to gather pity — but no one reached for her.
Juliet whimpered, crumpled against the table, mascara staining her cheeks.
And Isabelle just stood there, trembling, fury tightening every muscle in her face, too proud to break down where witnesses could see.
Aria rose slowly.
Pushed back her chair with a soft scrape of wood on marble.
Noel stepped forward instinctively, moving to shield her flank.
But she didn't need protection.
Not anymore.
As she passed Isabelle, she paused.
Leaned in just enough that only the two of them could hear.
"You lost," Aria whispered.
And then, smiling faintly:
"Again."
The door swung shut behind her like a judge's gavel.
Outside, the reporters surged forward, shouting questions.
Aria didn't answer.
She simply walked — head high, spine straight — through the storm of flashbulbs and hungry eyes.
Through the chaos her father's death had unleashed.
Through the gates of the war they thought they could fight without her.
Inside her pocket, the USB pressed cold against her palm —
a weight she hadn't forgotten.
A secret still waiting to be heard.