Belle’s footsteps were slow, each one deliberate, as if she were dragging herself through quicksand. The door groaned open softly, swallowed by the eerie quiet of the room. Macbeth lay motionless on the bed, her chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. Macbeth's face was serene as a summer sky, while Belle's thoughts were a raging storm.
Belle's breath hitched as she scanned the room, her eyes stinging from unshed tears. What had she done to deserve this? She had fought tooth and nail to resist the world Ashton had forced her into, only to find herself sinking deeper, trapped in a web she couldn’t escape. Resistance had proven futile, so she had tried surrendering, hoping that compliance would soften him. Maybe then, just maybe, he’d see her as more than an object, more than a vessel
