⚓
Alyssa stared at the closed door for what felt like hours, her silk robe twisted around her trembling frame. Her sanctuary had become a tomb. Every expensive trinket, every piece of fine furniture seemed to mock her with their hollow luxury.
Weak. Pathetic. Cruelty dressed up in a fancy uniform.
She pressed her palms against her ears, but the echo of his voice persisted. That calm, unwavering certainty when he'd spoken about his friend. The way he'd said he would burn the world for her.
A porcelain doll sat on her vanity—one of dozens her father had given her over the years. Gifts, he'd called them, though she'd never asked for any. The doll's painted smile seemed to leer at her, its glassy eyes reflecting the lamplight like accusation.
"Shut up," she whispered to the empty room. "Just shut up."
