Morning broke heavy and gray over the Meier estate. The sky hung low, a dull blanket of clouds pressing down on the sprawling mansion built decades ago by Greta's great-grandfather. Cold mist crept in from the gardens, curling around the marble walls like fingers, seeping through the cracks in her bedroom window. It carried the scent of damp earth and wilted flowers, remnants of last night's aromatherapy, courtesy of a nervous maid.
Greta stood in front of the tall silver-framed mirror, sunlight glinting off its edges. The woman staring back at her didn't feel like her anymore. Not quite. Not fully. Something had shifted.
A soft-colored gown hung over the back of a chair, waiting. Meanwhile, a young maid fussed with Greta's corset, fingers trembling as she adjusted the lace at her waist. Every movement was cautious, almost apologetic, like even breathing too hard might wrinkle the expensive fabric.
