Aria Lancaster woke beneath a blush-toned cashmere throw, the kind so soft it made silk feel insecure. The room was warm with coastal light, filtered through automated sheers that had risen silently with the sun. Her suite—perched above the cliffs of Vaucluse—looked out over the harbor like a queen regarding her kingdom.
Everything inside the Lancaster mansion was designed to feel like silence had been curated.
The soft tick of climate sensors. The near-invisible pulse of a sleep tracker embedded into the wall. The whisper of air purifiers circulating through recessed vents. Her closet doors, voice-activated, remained politely shut.
But something felt off.
She blinked once.
No rose bouquet projected onto the glass. No velvet breakfast tray hovering toward her with rosewater pancakes and champagne strawberries. No birthday overture—her usual violin-and-synth fusion—playing softly from the ceiling.
It was her birthday.
She was supposed to wake up to something.
Even a "Happy 12th, Princess" from the household AI would've been... normal.
But today?
Nothing.
She sat up slowly.
The sheets rustled, expensive and well-behaved.
Even in the soft morning light, Aria looked exactly like herself: striking.
Her cocoa-brown hair, straight and glossy, fell in gentle waves down past her collarbones, parted slightly off-center with unbothered precision. Her eyes—almond-shaped and light hazel—carried a kind of poise that didn't belong to most twelve-year-olds. She had a soft jawline, the faintest natural flush in her cheeks, and lashes that curled upward like they had their own PR team.
Aria didn't just look polished—she looked intentional. And not because she tried too hard. Because her life had been designed that way.
She reached for her phone.
No alerts. No birthday texts. Not even the passive-aggressive "brunch outfit inspo?" from Savannah that usually arrived before sunrise.
"Alexa?" she called, tone flat.
No response. Of course not. Her parents must've muted the house systems—probably to make everything more dramatic.
She slipped into her monogrammed slippers and padded across the marble floor, passing the mood mirror that usually lit up with her vitals and schedule.
She paused in front of it anyway.
For a second, she looked like a magazine cover left on standby. Twelve going on effortlessly iconic. But her reflection didn't glow the way it usually did. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was something else.
It looked like someone had turned the volume down on her life.
Aria stepped toward the windows, placing one palm against the cool glass. The harbor glittered beneath her like nothing was wrong. But everything was wrong.
Her birthdays were events. Staffed. Styled. Streamed internally to the family's private archive.
This morning?
No one had said a word.
Not her parents. Not the chef. Not even her digital assistant.
The silence wasn't just silence.
It was planning something..
The hallway was colder than usual.
Aria adjusted the ruffled hem of her white Chloé nightgown and padded silently across the marble corridor, her fur-lined slippers making no sound. The usual morning lights—set to a warm peach glow—remained off. She waved her hand in front of the motion sensor panel, but nothing happened.
YOU ARE READING
Valmont Series - Inheritance Code
Teen FictionWhat if your perfect life was just a rehearsal? On their twelfth birthday, Aria and Aiden Lancaster wake expecting luxury, freedom, and the future they were promised. Instead, they're given an ultimatum: Leave everything behind - their friends, thei...
