The "stabilization" protocol was in full effect. Inside the East Wing suite, the air was heavy with the cloying scent of lavender powder and the low, rhythmic hum of white noise vibrating from the speakers.
Dafne sat in the center of the room on a low, velvet-tufted stool. She wore the cream lace dress—the one that looked like a christening gown for a girl far too old for it. Her arms were held out to the sides as Jordan meticulously adjusted the silk ribbons at her wrists, her eyes wide with a frantic, humming devotion.
"Keep your fingers still, Miss," Jordan whispered, her breath hot against Dafne's hand. "You have to be perfect for the night. You have to be our quiet little girl."
Anna stood behind her, brushing Dafne's hair with such rhythmic, hypnotic force that Dafne felt her head nodding in time with the strokes. Sofia was at her feet, polishing the small, patent leather shoes as if they were holy relics.
The door chattered open, and Elara stepped in. She didn't knock; she never did. She leaned against the doorframe, a cruel, amused glint in her eyes as she surveyed the scene.
"Oh, look at this," Elara giggled, strolling over and circling the stool like a predator. "The masterpiece is back in her box. And she's finally stopped making all that annoying 'freedom' noise."
"She is being re-calibrated, Miss Elara," Anna said, not breaking her stroke.
"She looks bored," Elara noted. She reached out and grabbed a large, pink silk bow from the vanity. "She needs more... accessories. If she's going to be a doll, she should at least be a pretty one."
Elara stepped into Dafne's personal space, shoving Jordan aside. She grabbed a handful of Dafne's hair and began tying the bow directly on top of her head, pulling it so tight it tugged at Dafne's scalp.
"There," Elara laughed, patting Dafne's cheek with a stinging slap. "Now you look exactly how Raphael wants you. Brainless and beautiful. Say 'thank you,' Dafne."
Dafne's silver eyes were glazed, the Echo of the white noise and the morning's trauma making her voice a hollow shell. "Thank you, Elara," she whispered, the words coached out of her by the suffocating atmosphere.
"Good girl," Elara cooed, picking up a silver spoon from the tray Anna was holding. She scooped up a thick bit of honeyed yogurt and shoved it toward Dafne's mouth. "Open wide, baby. Don't want to get any on that expensive lace, do we? Or Raphael might have to put you in the dark again."
Dafne opened her mouth, the humiliation a cold, dead weight in her stomach. She sat there, trapped between the obsessive care of the maids and the sadistic playfulness of Raphael's sister, a living doll in a room where her soul was the only thing not invited.
The Midnight Meeting (The Rescue)Three blocks away, the rain began to lash against the windows of a small, nondescript van. Inside, Leo and Maya sat surrounded by monitors and crumpled coffee cups. The side door slid open, and Lucas climbed in, soaking wet. He didn't say a word; he just handed Leo the drive containing the footage of the "nursery."
Leo plugged it in. As the footage of the maids—and now Elara—treating Dafne like a helpless infant played, the silence in the van became suffocating.
"They're erasing her," Maya whispered, her voice cracking as she watched Elara mockingly feed a vacant-eyed Dafne. "They're turning her into a toy."
Leo's eyes were fixed on the screen, his jaw set so tight it looked like it might shatter. "He's not just keeping her," Leo said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "He's rebuilding her. And if we don't get in there tonight, there won't be a 'Dafne' left to save."
"We have the keycards," Maya said, her eyes flashing with a desperate resolve.
"We go through the walls," Leo vowed. "Lucas, we need the shift changes for the East Wing guards. We're going in during the peak of the storm."