The walls of Moira’s chamber felt like a prison gilded in gold. She paced, then sat, then paced again. Her mind wasn’t quiet. Not tonight.
It had been weeks. Weeks without a single word about Lyla. The maids dodged her questions about her like a plague, bowing with shallow smiles and blank faces.
No answers. No messages. Just cold silence that gnawed at her nerves.
Moira had begged Leander for news, for freedom, for anything—but his replies, if any, were like steel doors shutting in her face. Icy. Cold. Dismissive.
Desperation clawed at her. Her mind told her this was a foolish plan. But the thought of doing nothing was worse. If Leander wanted control—then maybe, just maybe, she could use that hunger against him.
Her heartbeat thundered as she stood before the mirror.
The nightgown
