Celina Vexley slammed through the ornate double doors of the east wing, the echo of her sobs carrying down the marble hall like shards of glass skittering across stone. Inside of the mansion was cool and perfumed with faint notes of white roses, yet it only made the burn in her chest feel sharper. The crystal chandeliers glittered above, each delicate prism throwing flecks of light along the gilded frames on the walls, as if mocking her with their untouched perfection.
Her designer handbag was clutched tight to her chest, almost like it was the only thing holding her together. Black streaks of mascara traced uneven paths down her flushed cheeks, her breath hitching as she stumbled forward. Her heels—too high for the pace she was moving—clicked in an uneven rhythm on the polished floor, the sound collapsing into a muffled thud as she stepped into the plush carpet of the sitting room.
