The hallway stretches before me, long and gleaming, polished marble reflecting the chandeliers above like a thousand tiny suns trapped beneath my feet.
The Roselle mansion glows tonight—same as every night—drenched in golden light that pretends to be warmth but never reaches the skin.
Servants press themselves against the walls as I pass, bowing at precise angles, their murmured greetings fading behind me.
I don't turn my head. Don't slow my pace.
"Where is my father?"
"In the living room, sir."
Of course he is. Where else would he be? Sitting in his throne, nursing his wine, pretending the world bends to his will—while my mother strokes her Persian cat like it's the only living thing in this house that still loves her.
I keep walking. The corridor breathes around me—tall windows framing the night, gardens beyond swallowed in darkness, the faint scent of white roses drifting through the air.
Why did they call me now?
