The Master Suite felt less like a room and more like a cavern carved into the heart of a dream—thick with shadows and the lingering trace of expensive French perfume, undercut by the cold, damp breath of approaching Kalimantan dawn. The windows were tall, framed in heavy wood, yet they were nothing compared to the weight of the mahogany vanity that dominated one wall: an altar to generations of Van der Pijl power, lacquered and polished until it could devour reflections whole.
Carmelia stood before it as if awaiting judgment.
Even in the half-light, her monumental silhouette looked too large for this gilded frame. The black silk gown that clung to her seemed suddenly inadequate, a layer of civilization trembling over something far older. Her hands tried and failed to fasten the silver cl
