The mansion had gone eerily quiet, the screams and shattered debris replaced by a suffocating stillness. Greta moved slowly through the grand hall, the air thick and cold, like Hellene's fury still clung to the walls. At the base of the marble staircase, Lady Irena, the senior maid, was calmly sweeping up shards of glass and porcelain. The sharp, heady scent of crushed rose perfume, remnants of the bottles Hellene had smashed upstairs, hung in the air, a haunting trace of chaos too raw to name.
Greta couldn't begin to imagine the heartbreak and betrayal Hellene must've felt after their father said all those things. Whatever it was, it had driven her to tear through nearly half the house in a storm of rage.
