Morning arrived at the Van Alen mansion, its light filtering through the grand windows as if the night’s terrors had never occurred. The mansion, bathed in the soft glow of dawn, seemed to carry on with its usual grace, oblivious to the horrors that had unfolded the previous evening.
Eloise was attended by the maids as usual, their hands moving with practiced efficiency as they arranged her hair and adjusted her gown. Their movements were precise and silent, each gesture a mechanical repetition of their daily routine. The air was thick with unspoken tension, their faces carefully neutral, as though the murder of one of their own were a topic too fraught to address.
The silence was suffocating. Every rustle of fabric, every clink of a hairpin, seemed amplified in the oppressive quiet. Elo
