While back in New York:
An excellent well-furnished room looked utterly devastated.
Exquisite vases lay shattered across the floor, the mirror above the dresser cracked from the impact of something hurled at it, and the bedsheet was torn off the bed —twisted and discarded like it had been used to soak up the fury of someone spiralling.
In the midst of such chaos stood Selene, her chest heaving, eyes wild with rage and betrayal. Her fingers were raw from clawing cushions, and one of her heels lay broken beside the overturned chair.
And yet, even after venting so much, she hasn't felt the relief that she needed.
"Why? Why? Why?" she shouted, aggrieved. "Why didn't he look for me? Why didn't he wait for me? He couldn't possibly forget me, could he?"
There was a glint of insanity in her eye —one that promised the worst.
The maids stood at the door, scared —none daring to set foot inside the room.
