Serena
“Get out of my house,” her voice sliced the air before I even closed the door, sharp and commanding, leaving no room for negotiation.
Mirah was waiting in the hall, arms folded, gown silk-dark, hair pinned sharp, and eyes glittering like knives.
I didn’t move, and I said, “It isn’t your house,” because the truth mattered more than her threats.
She stepped closer, chin high, and said, “This wing belongs to me, and this estate belongs to me,” her eyes flicking toward the door I’d just shut. “Do not.”
I tilted my head and replied, “Strange, your husband thought otherwise,” and I let the words linger between us.
Her face cracked for a second, and then it hardened again. “Don’t you dare use his pity as your weapon,” she snapped, “you were cast out once, and I can do it again.”
I l
