"What a disappointment you are, dear Thomas."
"Madam Akna."
She was standing there.
Lucrezia Akna.
Framed by the door like some awful oil painting that refused to age with dignity.
A red dress hugged her too tightly in all the wrong places—thin straps hanging on Botox shoulders, neckline plunging so deep it almost introduced itself first.
Pearl earrings swayed with every sharp breath, and her matching necklace glimmered like a leash for the rich and overdone.
She looked like a nightclub chandelier that made too many poor life choices.
And her face—
It was scowling.
At least, I think it was.
Hard to tell with all that frozen collagen.
Her brows were arched high in what I assumed was intended to be fury, but they hovered too far above her glassy eyes to land the expression right.
Like someone paused her mid-meltdown and left her there to buffer.
She just stood there, a stiff red specter, silently judging me in my hospital bed.
