The room was heavy with the scent of perfume and blood.
A thin line of sunlight cut through the lace curtains, falling in slanted stripes across the tiled floor — each beam illuminating the faint dust floating in the air like suspended glitter.
But beneath that soft light, the sight was anything but gentle.
Abigail lay there, her hair a disheveled mess, cheeks swollen, a streak of blood trailing from the corner of her mouth.
Her breath came in shallow, trembling pulls. Every exhale was a sound between a moan and a whimper.
Julie stood over her — still, almost eerily calm — the hem of her pale gown brushing against her knees.
Her chest rose and fell with faint restraint, but her face carried no sign of the storm that had just passed.
No triumph. No anger. Only silence carved into her expression like stone.
Ava, on the other hand, was still catching her breath, strands of hair falling across her flushed face.
