The screen on the wall flickered. Cassian was still hanging there, motionless. Every few minutes, I saw his chest heave, confirming he was still breathing. It was the only thing keeping me from screaming.
I paced the pink room, my bare feet crunching on the shards of the shattered porcelain doll. I didn't sweep them up. The pain kept me sharp.
Click.
The heavy oak door unlatched.
I stopped pacing, spinning to face the threat. I grabbed a shard of porcelain—a jagged piece of the doll's face—and held it tight in my palm.
Vittorio entered. But he didn't come alone.
"Elena," he said pleasantly, stepping aside. "I thought you might want some company. Someone to help you prepare for the Gala."
A girl stepped into the room.
It was like looking into a funhouse mirror.
