Deep beneath the earth, in a chamber that felt less like a room and more like a bad idea someone had committed to centuries ago, the air clung thick with damp stone, rust, and despair. The kind of silence that followed wasn't peaceful—it was loud, pressing against the ears, daring anyone to make the first sound and regret it.
Mirabel Vexley shifted against her restraints, the movement earning her nothing but aching wrists and a surge of fury. Her once-flawless silk blouse—tailored, imported, and outrageously expensive—was now torn, smeared with grime, and clinging to her like an insult. Her elegant features were twisted into an expression that hovered somewhere between righteous outrage and very real fear. If indignation were oxygen, she would've been breathing just fine.
