The salon doors closed softly behind her.
Mireya did not turn around to ensure they were sealed. She knew they were. Her attendants had been dismissed with a smile—warm, gracious, unbothered.
The moment the last footstep faded beyond the corridor, the smile vanished.
The crystal wine glass in her hand trembled once.
Then shattered against the marble floor.
The sound rang sharp and clean.
Red wine bled across polished stone like something more violent than it was.
Mireya stood perfectly still in the center of the room, chest rising and falling in measured rhythm. She did not scream. She did not weep.
She simply stared at the stain spreading at her feet.
"She takes what she wants," she said softly.
The words were not accusation.
They were recognition.
Raphael had not been merely an eligible match.
He had been her first calculated step forward.
