The guards moved with the impersonal efficiency of men who had long ago learned not to ask questions. One walked ahead, one behind, their presence a silent, suffocating bracket around what was left of my life. The walk from my office to the main entrance was a journey through a gallery of ghosts.
We passed the library, where my father had taught me strategy using ancient chess sets, his voice a low rumble of wisdom. *“Never let them see your heart, Vera. Only the board.”* We passed the grand ballroom, where Lorenzo and I had once danced until dawn, his laughter a foreign, forgotten sound. He’d sworn that night that my strength didn't frighten him; it was the bedrock of his own. A liar. Or a man who had not yet met his own weakness.
My steps were steady. My face was a blank mask. Inside,
