Esme's fingers clenched tighter around the fabric of her dress, the delicate cloth wrinkling beneath her grip as resentment churned violently in her chest. The unfairness of it all burned her from the inside.
How could that woman, someone long gone, someone who had abandoned Morpheus, be so deeply admired, so carefully preserved in his memory, when Esme herself had given him everything?
She had served him with unwavering devotion, poured her loyalty, her obedience, her very soul into standing by his side, and yet she was nothing more than a vessel carrying another woman's face.
Someone else. Someone who left.
Someone who failed him.
The thought made her vision tremble with a deep fury of jealousy, eating her alive.
