Morning sunlight spilled through the gauzy curtains of Emily's townhouse, turning the room pale gold. The heat was already rising — the sort that made the air shimmer faintly above the rooftops and the city smell faintly of roses and dust. It was August, the height of the Season, when cars passed by endlessly down every street and the noble world danced itself into exhaustion.
Serena had not slept. The night had been long, her thoughts looping endlessly between shame and resolve, regret and the calm clarity that always followed pain.
When dawn came, she rose. The air was warm, heavy, and still, and yet her skin felt cold as she washed her face at the basin. Her reflection in the mirror was sharp — all edges and poise. Only the faint shadows beneath her eyes betrayed the hours spent staring into the dark, reliving every word, every look, every cruel fragment of Charlton's voice.
So this is what you've become.
