Beatrice's heart stopped as Elara turned to leave.
"Elara," I called out, my voice cracking. It was barely a whisper, but it seemed to echo through the suddenly silent room.
She paused, her shoulders stiffening slightly before she turned. Those eyes—my eyes—looked back at me with such weary resignation that it tore my heart in two. All these years, I'd seen that look and never understood why it hurt so deeply. Now I knew. Now I understood everything.
My daughter. My child. Twenty-four years of memories crashed over me like a tidal wave.
The day I returned from Clance, heavy with child and secrets. The night she was born, when I was too weak from blood loss to hold her. The first time I saw her in Genevieve's arms, feeling a strange pull I couldn't explain.
And then the years watching her grow up in the basement, suffering under Genevieve's cruel hand.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dubois," Elara said, her voice soft and controlled. "I didn't mean to upset you."
