The morning light in the East Wing was filtered through heavy, cream-colored silk, casting a pale, sterile glow over the master suite. Dafne didn't wake to the sun; she woke to the feeling of being watched.
Jordan was perched on a stool at the foot of the bed, her chin resting in her hands, her eyes wide and unblinking. As soon as Dafne's lashes flickered, Jordan's face lit up with a terrifying, feverish devotion.
"Good morning, my precious Miss," Jordan whispered, leaning forward until her breath warmed Dafne's cheek. "Don't move. I've been sitting here for three hours just to see the exact moment the light hit your eyes. You're so still, so perfect. Like a doll that finally opened its eyes."
Before Dafne could even process the words, the heavy double doors clicked open. Anna marched in, followed by Sofia, who carried a basin of steaming water scented with expensive lavender.
The Morning Maintenance"Sit up, Miss Dafne," Anna commanded, her voice crisp and maternal, yet layered with a frequency that made Dafne's muscles lock into obedience. "Hands out of the covers. Shoulders back. You will not slouch."
They moved in a synchronized blur of charcoal-grey uniforms. Anna began to brush Dafne's hair with rhythmic, forceful strokes that made her scalp sting, while Sofia began to wash her face with a damp cloth.
"She's a bit pale today, Anna," Sofia remarked, her blunt honesty cutting through the steam. She scrubbed a spot of sleep from the corner of Dafne's eye with clinical detachment. "Maybe if she wasn't trapped in a soundproof box, she'd look more like a human and less like a ghost."
"Silence, Sofia," Anna snapped, though her eyes flickered with a brief, sharp pity. "She is 'safe.' That is the only metric that matters. Jordan, stop staring and fetch the cream lace dress. Mr. Raphael expects her downstairs in ten minutes."
Jordan lunged for the wardrobe, pulling out a dress that looked like a christening gown for a grown woman. She knelt at Dafne's feet, her fingers lingering on Dafne's ankles as she slid the silk stockings up. "I'll make sure you're the most beautiful thing at the table, Miss," Jordan murmured, her voice thick with obsession. "I'll make sure no one else even wants to touch you because you're so perfect in my hands."
Dafne sat there, her spirit retreating into the dark. She didn't dress herself. She didn't wash her own face. She simply let the three of them move her limbs, her silver eyes staring at the wall until the "Ward" was ready for display.
The Family BreakfastThe dining hall was a cavern of cold marble and echoing silverware. Lucas and Elara were already seated, along with their parents. Eleanor, Raphael's mother, sat at the opposite end from her husband, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted her silk napkin.
The double doors opened, and Raphael entered, leading Dafne by the wrist. He didn't lead her to a separate chair. Instead, he pulled out his own heavy velvet chair and sat, then pulled Dafne down onto his lap in front of his entire family.
A sharp silence fell. Lucas choked on his coffee, and even their father lowered the newspaper, his brow furrowing in distaste. Eleanor's breath hitched; she looked at Dafne's vacant, silver eyes and felt a cold stone of sorrow settle in her chest. She saw her own youth in that blank stare—the way this family could hollow a person out until only a shell remained.
"Raphael," their father said, his voice booming. "There are twelve empty chairs. Have some decorum."
"Dafne is cold," Raphael replied, his voice dropping into that lethal, resonant frequency that made the silverware hum. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest so she was pinned between his body and the table. "And she finds the 'noise' of the room easier to handle when she is close to the source of the quiet. Don't you, Dafne?"
Dafne's head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Yes, Raphael," she whispered, her voice a hollow shell.
"She looks like a ventriloquist's dummy," Elara giggled, poking at her fruit salad. "Can she eat, or does she just breathe when you tell her to?"
"Watch your tone, Elara," Raphael warned. He picked up a small piece of melon with a silver fork and held it to Dafne's lips. "Open. Take it for me, Dafne. Show them how well you listen."
Dafne obeyed, her jaw moving mechanically as she swallowed the food he provided. Eleanor watched, her heart breaking as she saw Dafne's small, pale hand twitch against Raphael's sleeve—a silent, subconscious plea for help that no one else seemed to see. She's just a child, Eleanor thought, her eyes stinging. And he's turned her into a ghost.
"Tell them, Dafne," Raphael whispered, his breath hot against her ear as the table watched in horrified fascination. "Tell them why you don't need your own chair. Tell them why you belong right here."
"Because there is no noise here," she whispered, the script fighting against the sudden surge of her father's presence in her peripheral vision. "Because you are my savior. You are the only one who keeps the crawling away."
"Exactly," Raphael murmured, his fingers tangling in her hair, tilting her head back to press a possessive kiss to her forehead. "She isn't a person anymore, Lucas. She's a masterpiece. And you don't let a masterpiece sit on a common chair."
Lucas stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. "This is sick, Raph. You're consuming her."
"I am preserving her," Raphael corrected, his eyes flashing with a dark, victorious light.
Under the table, out of sight, Lucas's hand moved to his pocket, gripping the spare keycard. He looked at Dafne's vacant face and knew that if they didn't act tonight, the girl they knew would be gone forever.