The mansion was suffocatingly quiet as Ivy played her part. She lay in her darkened bedroom, a damp cloth over her eyes, while a concerned maid hovered by the door. Every breath felt calculated, every slight movement a performance she couldn't afford to ruin.
"Tell my father the light is blinding," Ivy murmured, her voice a fragile rasp that surprised even herself with its authenticity. Perhaps the lie came so easily because part of her truly did ache—not from any physical ailment, but from the weight of deception pressing against her chest.
The maid shifted nervously, her shadow flickering across the wall. "Should I fetch the doctor, miss?"
"No," Ivy whispered, allowing a tremor to creep into her tone. "I simply need absolute silence and no interruptions until the evening." She paused,
