Finally, the grand doors of the main hall swung open, and with the sound of steady footsteps, a tall, imposing man entered. His presence radiated authority, and as his gaze swept across the room, the chatter that had filled the air abruptly faded, leaving the hall in a momentary hush.
Beside him stood a woman clad in an elegant deep-red silk gown. Her composed demeanor and regal aura immediately marked her as a noblewoman accustomed to wielding power. Together, they presented a flawless front, a shield of dignity that cast an air of solemnity over the gathering.
Alia's gaze was drawn to the man despite herself. Even in the brightly lit room, he stood out like a towering mountain—unyielding, commanding, and utterly overwhelming. The sheer weight of his presence overshadowed even Marcellus, standing at her side, causing her heart to clench with an inexplicable tension.
A shiver ran down her spine, spreading through her entire body. It wasn't fear, exactly, but a primal reaction she couldn't suppress. Her mind raced to make sense of it, but her trembling was visceral and undeniable.
This is my father—Edgar Rinehart.
No introductions were necessary. No one had to utter his name. Alia's body recognized him instinctively, a certainty that resonated from the depths of her being. Forgotten fragments of memories seemed to stir painfully within her, leaving her unsure whether it was Livia's body that trembled in fear or her own soul recoiling in resistance.
She tried to steady her breathing but found her throat tightening. Her fingers, trembling slightly, gripped the wineglass in her hand as if anchoring herself.
Noticing her unease, Marcellus leaned in and whispered soothingly, "Stay calm, my dear." His hand rested lightly on her waist, offering subtle support.
Edgar's gaze swept across the crowd before settling on Alia. His dark eyes, deep and inscrutable as the night sea, seemed to pierce through her. Though his expression remained unreadable, his stare made her feel exposed, as if he could see right through her façade.
The elegantly dressed woman at his side smiled at Alia—a polite, almost cordial gesture—but her eyes held a complexity that made Alia uneasy. In that moment, Alia realized these two were not just her "parents." They were the true challenge she would have to confront and unravel.
Alia met Edgar's gaze head-on. His piercing eyes lingered on her momentarily before shifting away without any trace of emotion. He turned toward the other guests, his movements calm and unhurried, exuding an undeniable authority. Yet, despite his proximity, Alia couldn't suppress a pang of disappointment.
She knew this emotion didn't truly belong to her; it came from Livia's memories. Alia had never met this father, never forged a connection with him. And now, here he was, a living, breathing figure standing mere steps away, yet he felt as distant and unapproachable as a towering peak shrouded in mist. That bitter sense of neglect mirrored the helplessness Alia herself had experienced in her past life.
Just as she lowered her head to compose herself, a firm pressure enveloped her waist. Marcellus's large hand rested there, its warmth seeping through the fabric of her dress. The strength in his touch, both grounding and reassuring, momentarily broke through her disarray.
"I'm here," he murmured, his voice steady and resolute, like a stream carving through stone.
Startled, Alia looked up at him. Marcellus's gaze met hers, filled with tenderness and determination, piercing through her guarded heart.
In that instant, she saw in his eyes an unspoken promise, unwavering and sincere. A strange warmth surged within her, dispelling the loneliness and uncertainty that had taken root in her chest.
"Thank you," she said softly, her lips curling into a faint smile. Her eyes glimmered with a hint of gratitude.
Marcellus said nothing more, merely standing steadfastly by her side. His presence, solid and reassuring, became an invisible pillar she could lean on amidst the overwhelming crowd.
Taking a deep breath, Alia straightened herself. If this father of hers wasn't going to offer his attention, she wouldn't rely on it. Livia's soul may have been fragile, but she was Alia—a woman accustomed to surviving without support.
After mingling briefly with the nobles, Edgar finally approached her. A ripple of unease spread through her heart as she watched him come closer. His stride was steady, his posture unyielding, and his commanding presence drew all eyes in the room. Alia couldn't help but hold her breath, her gaze complicated as she faced him.
He stopped before them, his towering figure casting a shadow over her. His scrutinizing gaze was measured and restrained, radiating an oppressive aura that was impossible to ignore. His eyes flickered over her briefly before moving on, treating her not as his daughter but as a mere social obligation.
"How have you been?" His voice was deep, but his tone was distant and curt, more of a formality than genuine concern.
Alia hesitated for a heartbeat, forcing a composed smile onto her face. "I'm well, thank you, Dad."
But his gaze didn't soften. Instead, it lingered on her for a moment longer before he spoke again. "As your mother's daughter, you shouldn't have such a weak constitution. Pay more attention to your health."
The remark was delivered casually, but it struck Alia like a thorn. She couldn't tell if his words carried an expectation or merely criticism. Either way, the cold indifference in his tone was palpable.
Her lips tightened briefly as she suppressed the sting of his words. With a faint nod, she replied evenly, "I will."
The mention of her mother was a sharp blow to Livia's fragile psyche, but to Alia, it was simply another thread to unravel. Edgar Rinehart might have been this body's father, but his care felt manufactured—polished and distant, devoid of genuine warmth. The lack of connection left her adrift, yet it also strengthened her resolve.
In this elaborate charade of nobility, Alia reminded herself she could only rely on one person—herself.