Isabella Hawthorne
The air hung heavy with the scent of lilies and polished wood.
The massive main bedroom stretched before me like a stage set for a king. The incoming light of dawn filtered through intricately embroidered drapes, casting a purplish glow over the plush velvet carpets and ornately carved furniture. A crystal chandelier, glittering with a thousand facets, dripped from the high ceiling, each pendant reflecting rainbows onto the polished marble floor.
This was extravagance beyond anything I'd ever seen, even in the libraries I used to devour dusty tomes in back at Meadow Brook Orphanage. Yet, for all its splendor, the room felt cold. An alien landscape devoid of the warmth of familiarity. I sank onto the immense bed, its silk sheets cool against my skin. My fingers absent
