I didn't go to my room. Instead, I walked to the library, a cavernous space at the far end of the east wing. It was the one place in the estate that felt untouched by Charles's sterile aesthetic. The air smelled of old leather, paper, and wood polish, a scent that spoke of history and permanence, a stark contrast to the fleeting, transactional nature of the life we all led. I poured myself a measure of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the bar cart, the amber liquid a small, warming comfort against the cold reality of the evening.
I had expected her defiance. It was a predictable, almost necessary, part of the dance. But it didn't matter. Charles had a thousand ways to break a person's will, and he was patient. He would starve her out, cut her off, and make her understand that the cage was the only place she and her son were safe. My part was done for tonight. I had delivered the message.
