The morning light filtering through the thin, dusty curtains of the west wing bedroom was grey and unforgiving. It did not bring warmth; it only illuminated the dust motes dancing in the stale air, the unmade bed, and the emptiness of a room that no longer felt like a home.
Ashlyn stepped inside, closing the heavy oak door behind her with a soft, final click. The sound echoed in the silence, sealing her in with the man who had destroyed her. She leaned back against the wood, her body trembling with exhaustion and a deep, bone-weary shame that seemed to seep from her pores.
