The rest of that day unfolded like a fever dream written by a caffeinated screenwriter with a grudge against pacing.
After Selena had fled the kitchen in tears, she'd tried to bury herself in work. Laundry. Cleaning. Scrubbing floors. Anything to forget the nightmare that was her sister's sudden, terrifying "affection."
But she couldn't last five minutes.
Because EVERYWHERE she went, a shadow loomed. A presence. A woman with a big bag swinging over her head like a lasso, eyes gleaming with unhinged determination.
And so began the GREAT AZURA-SELENA CHASE OF THE CENTURY.
A Bollywood-style spectacle, minus the romantic music and choreographed dance numbers. Instead of lovers playing hard-to-get, it was a traumatized maid fleeing from her reformed-villainess sister who had apparently decided that "proving sincerity" meant "pursuing like a territorial cheetah."
They weaved through corridors. Through the laundry room. Past the library. Around the servant's quarters. Into the garden.
