tched at it, my body twisting away from the wall. My movements were clumsy, a d

wl, laced with disgust. He mistook my pain for defian

room. My ear rang. My cheek stung, a burning sensation spreading rapidly. I

ing. My body vibrated with a dull ache, a deep, pervasive throbbing that seemed to emanate from every bone. My vision was stil

r, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes

reatening to cut my paintings. Bowen, then just a scrawny kid, had appeared as if from nowhere. He' d tackled them, a furious blur of limbs, taking blow after blow, his face a mask of determination. He' d roared, "

profound coldness enveloped me, chilling me to the bone, a coldness that had nothing to

venom. "Apologize to me. Bow your head. You owe me that much." She stood there, regal

ead bowed, my body trembling. I made a small, pathetic gesture of apology, a silent plea for thi

e of regret washed over me. Why hadn't I fought back harder? Why hadn't I screamed, even a silent one? Maybe if I had shown him more anger, more strength,

ate was a silent defiance, a refusal to accept his hollow offerings. I spent my waking hours hunched over the tablet, forcing myself to concentrate on the lip-reading exercises. Each word, each

ards, were known for their extravagant winter celebrations. I could hear the faint strains of music, the distant laughter, the popping of champagn

plainest, darkest clothes, I slipped out of the apartment, a silent shadow blending into the early evening gloom. I skirted the edges

a maid rushed out, her face pale with terror. "The dress! Oh, the dre

ship's gown! The one from Paris! It's torn,

n. A symbol of her power, her claim on Bowen. The maids'

he beam of a security light, a lone, dark figure at the edge

lent gesture of denial. It wasn't me! My throat burned

ing a trembling finger at me. "The mute girl! She

een near the dressing room ea

he house, only just arrived. But my silen

scene, finally landing on me. His expression was a mixture of disappointment

ds a frantic blur, "I

he looked at me, then back at Bowen, her voice a soft, almost pitying whisper. "Oh, Bowen, don't be too hard on her. She'

e steel, stepped forward. He said nothing, but his gaze

y knees on the icy ground. The rough gravel bit into my skin,

he announced, his voice devoid of emotion, "any act of sabotage against the family, especially on a day of celebra

ent. He was going

ossibly real. The crowd around us, a mixture of guests and staff, began to c

mask of righteous fury. My eyes, wide with terror, pl

st my freshly wounded skin. Another lash. And another. Each strike echoed not just on my flesh, but deep within my soul. It wasn't the physical p

down on my lungs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn'

a desperate, silent question. Does he feel even a f

till grim, but now, Kassandra was in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, a look of smug satis