Asha stepped slowly out of the gallery.
The doors didn't slam or sigh. They just closed—quietly final, sealing the weight of it all behind her like a confession you can't unsay.
She didn't cry. She didn't collapse. But gods, it felt like she'd aged a century in there.
Her steps were slower now. Her shoulders heavier. Not with defeat—But with understanding.
Brigitte was waiting.
Still in her middle-aged form, though something behind her eyes shimmered—like she'd aged ten years just watching.
She didn't speak. Just extended a hand and led Asha into a smaller room off the corridor.
It was warm here. Soft. But not safe.
The candlelight flickered, suspended in crystal chandeliers shaped like teardrops. Even the air felt aware.
The parlor was less grand than the gallery, but no less strange.
Two chaise lounges waited, deep plum velvet. They creaked—not with sound, but with emotion. The one on the left gave a soft hiccup of a sob as Asha lowered herself into it.
Brigitte poured tea into delicate china. It smelled like lavender and regret. When Asha sipped—it tasted like grief and honey.
Brigitte folded into the opposite seat. No clipboard. No pen. Just presence.
"Start wherever you like, dear," she said gently. "The palace will fill in the gaps."
Asha stared down at her cup for a long time.
"I don't know where to start."
"Then start there."
Her breath left her in a slow, involuntary shudder. She tried to speak—But the words scattered. So she circled them.
Facts. Timelines. Things that had happened to her, like she was narrating someone else's tragedy.
But the palace wasn't having it.
The mirror on the far wall darkened, rippling like a disturbed pond. First—nothing. Then—A red-haired child. Mute. Bound in silence.
The image flickered.
Now: a younger Asha in the temple. Kneeling. Obedient. Her hands clenched around nothing. Her lips moving, but no sound came out.
Brigitte said nothing. Just watched.
Asha's voice cracked.
"I was sold. And after that... I was remade so many times, I don't know what parts are mine."
The teacup in her hand trembled. The surface rippled—darker, thicker now.
"I was good at it. The pretending. The versions. I knew how to make them love me—Or at least want me. That was survival."
She blinked fast. Too fast.
"I thought... if I could be exactly what someone wanted—then I'd matter."
Brigitte asked, quiet as a secret: "Did it work?"
Asha didn't answer. She didn't have to.
The chandelier dimmed. The room leaned in, breathless.
And Asha whispered it—soft as a sin:
"Even with Malvor… I didn't mean to do it. But I think I still disappeared. Just softer this time."
She set the teacup down. It sobbed. Then stilled.
"I don't know if anyone's ever loved the real me." She swallowed. "I don't even know if I have."
Her voice dropped further, as if each word took more oxygen than she had to spare.
"He never asked for anything from me."
She stared at the steam rising between them, eyes glassy.
"But I gave anyway. Because that's what I've always done. And I don't know how to stop."
The chandelier flickered again. Somewhere behind the walls, a music box began to play—familiar, but wrong. Like a lullaby played underwater. Slowed. Warped.
Brigitte didn't respond. Didn't nod. Didn't offer affirmations.
She just listened. And her silence?
It wasn't empty. It was permission.
Permission to unravel. To sit in the shame without being shamed. To speak truth without it being soothed away.
So Asha kept going.
"With him, it's different. It always has been. He doesn't pull. He doesn't demand. And that… should make it easier. But somehow it's worse."
She blinked hard—Like she was trying not to remember something too clearly.
"Because if he never asked... then he never needed it. And if he never needed it… maybe I was never necessary."
The mirror behind her shifted again. Now it showed Malvor's bed. Her curled form asleep. His hand resting gently on her back. Not lust. Just presence.
The version of him in the reflection smiled in his sleep.
The first true smile she'd ever seen in a mirror here.
Brigitte finally spoke—barely louder than steam.
"You were never meant to earn your place, Asha. You were always meant to have one."
Her throat tightened.
"Then why do I still feel like a guest in my own life?"
Brigitte didn't answer. The silence wrapped around them like velvet stitched with shards of glass.
"I thought I was being honest," Asha said slowly. "I thought Annie was real. That the calm, the softness, the control... was me. That I had finally found something whole."
The mirror shifted again. Asha curled against Malvor's chest. Smiling. Sleeping. A picture of peace.
"And if they hadn't touched me—if Aerion and Navir hadn't taken the last thing I didn't even know I was guarding—"
Her jaw locked.
"If they hadn't violated me… I would have stayed."
She said it flatly. Not with shame. With devastation.
"I would have kept pretending. Kept smiling. Kept building my little fantasy life with him. Never questioned it. Never cracked the mask."
Her voice hitched.
"I was happy. At least I thought I was. Because no one had touched the dam yet. No one had reminded me that I was still—still property if someone powerful enough wanted me."
The chandelier pulsed violently. The mirror blurred.
"They didn't just break my body," she whispered. "They broke the lie."
Her breath hitched.Her chest tightened, like ribs cinched too tight to hold anything soft.
"The lie that I was safe. That I was enough. That if I stayed small and sweet and careful...nothing could reach me."
"I would've lived like that forever. A quiet, lovely life. In Malvor's bed. In his world. In his arms."
"And I never would have healed."
The room responded.
Rose petals curled in on themselves. A sob echoed—soft, hidden—from somewhere behind the walls.
Brigitte's voice came gently, like a balm she wasn't sure would soothe:
"You weren't healed. You were hidden."
Asha's hands shook.
"And the worst part is…he never asked me to hide. Not once. But I still did it."
She exhaled. Barely breathed.
"I made myself disappear. And I called it love."
She reached for her cup again. This time, it didn't sob.
"This time..."She looked up, voice steady. "I will stay."