Amara’s POV
The decapitated rose lay at my feet, a splash of crimson against the white gravel. Serena’s words were still ringing in my ears, vibrating with a frequency that felt designed to shatter my composure.
Placeholder. Project. Broken toy.
I didn’t go back inside immediately. I stood by the fountain until my fingers felt numb from the morning chill. I needed to find my spine. If I let Serena see that her words had drawn blood, I’d already lost.
When I finally stepped back into the mansion, the air-conditioned interior felt like a tomb. I heard laughter—high, melodic, and entirely fake—coming from the morning room.
I walked in to find a sight that made my stomach turn. Eleanor Wolfe was seated on the velvet sofa, a silver tea service in front of her. Beside her sat Serena, lookin
