The morning light filtered through heavy velvet curtains, casting a soft golden haze over the opulent chamber. Silk sheets tangled around my legs as I stirred awake, my silver hair spilling like liquid moonlight across the pillows.
There she was—Elaine, my so-called husband, sprawled on the cold marble floor like a discarded cloak, her dark hair tousled and chest rising in uneven breaths. A pang twisted in my gut, unbidden and annoying.
I sighed, sliding out of bed and padding barefoot to the full-length mirror framed in gilded vines. My reflection stared back—softer curves hugged by a sheer nightshift, olive eyes shadowed with exhaustion, the faint mark on my neck throbbing faintly—a permanent reminder of her rut-fuelled claim.
This life had sanded down my edges, made me a bit of a better person than the alley-killing assassin I used to be... or maybe not. If I wanted, I could end her right here—snap her neck before breakfast, no sweat.
