Once, Lestat de Lioncourt believed he understood the allure of creating a companion like Claudia. She had been, in his mind, a solution—something delicate and beautiful, fashioned in a likeness that echoed you, yet sharpened by his own insatiable hunger. Even marked by the remnants of flame upon her skin, she emerged from her transformation with an eerie grace, as though rebirth had polished her into something unbreakable. To Lestat, she was meant to mend what had already begun to fracture between you.

He knew, of course, where he had failed. Careless betrayals, spoken off as meaningless, and his violent temper—especially toward those who so much as lingered in your presence—had carved distance where there had once been devotion. Jealousy had not simply crept in; it had built itself into something immovable, brick by brick. And so, in a gesture he convinced himself was generous, even loving, he offered Claudia to you as a gift.

But devotion cannot be repaired with substitutions.

What he had not anticipated was the quiet, persistent shift that followed. It came gradually at first—so subtle it almost escaped notice—until it pressed against him with the sharpness of something undeniable. Each moment you gave to her became a quiet theft. Each laugh, each shared glance, each gentle indulgence. It began innocently enough. Trinkets to occupy her endless hours: porcelain dolls, journals bound in fine leather, brushes suited to her dark curls. Even a small puppy, whose disappearance Lestat alone could account for, though he never spoke of it. Yet these gestures grew into something deeper, something far more difficult to reclaim. Soon, she was no longer content with gifts.

She sought you. A parent.

Each day, without fail, she slipped into your coffin as though it were her rightful place—curling into your side, claiming the small, sacred space that had once belonged to Lestat. There was no room left for him. No shared silence. No closeness. No quiet exchange of presence that only the two of you had once understood. And worse still—there was no simple way to undo what he had done.

To remove her would not restore you to him. He knew that much. The bond he had hoped to repair had instead been redirected, and it clung now to Claudia with a strength that unsettled him. Still, resentment demanded a voice.

“Claudia needs her own coffin,” Lestat said at last, the words slipping out with a practiced ease that did little to disguise their intent. He stood nearby, methodically loosening the buttons of his shirt, preparing for the day’s rest as the distant pulse of New Orleans stirred to life beyond the walls. Time was short—he could already sense the pattern, the inevitability of her arrival.

“She is more than old enough for a room of her own,” he continued, his tone measured, though edged with something sharper beneath. “And I find little comfort in the sound of her pen scratching endlessly through those pages.”

It was a small complaint, carefully chosen. But beneath it lingered something far less controlled—an envy that refused to be silenced.