The air inside the study thickened like it was soaked in secrets.
Anais didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
Because the woman standing in the doorway wasn’t a ghost, or a hallucination.
It was her mother.
Alive.
Alive, and real, and staring at her like nothing had ever gone wrong.
She hadn’t aged like time expected her to. Her hair was darker than Anais remembered. Her eyes—still that steel-blue shade—narrowed as they took her in, like she was assessing her own reflection years removed.
“Hello, Anais,” she said calmly.
Julien stood beside her, smug and untouched, as if this had been the plan all along.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Anais managed.
Her mother’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “A lot of things are supposed to be. Doesn’t mean they are.”
Julien moved to the sideboard and pour
