The once-majestic calm of the Vexley mansion shattered into chaos. The glittering chandeliers above still glowed with their usual opulence, but beneath them, panic reigned. Mirabel Vexley lay sprawled across the polished marble floor, her silk gown blooming around her like the fragile wings of a fallen bird. A string of pearls had slipped from her trembling fingers, scattering in every direction—tiny, gleaming echoes of her last desperate grasp for control.
Her face, once a portrait of unshakable poise and power, was now ghostly pale, lips parted as if caught mid-protest. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest—so taken for granted—was gone, replaced by an awful, suffocating stillness.
