[color=silver][i][sub]Sola 25, 1739[/sub][/i][/color]

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[center][h3][color=red][sub]TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual Harassment, Self Harm[/sub][/color][/h3][/center]
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	[color=silver][i]**Sola 25, 1739 - Midday to Evening, Casa del Sol**[/i][/color]

After the Edwards's soiree, Zarai's itinerary was cleared of all lunches, invitations, and calls. She had been excited about the prospect of spending the day with her friends playing card games, but Sir Barrios had escorted her from the gathering without room to protest. Now, the princess was owed an apology, one Zarai intended to soften with some warm and delicious pastries. But that would be for another day. Today was special.

Today was moving day. How fun.

Duchess Francesca had finally secured a lavish manor just outside Sorian—a mere thirty-minute carriage ride from the city. The estate, grandiose and dripping with excess, boasted three stories, sprawling gardens, a private lake, two greenhouses, stables, and far too much land. Its name, Casa del Sol, inspired by the enormous skylight in the main entrance.

Zarai couldn’t help but wonder where the money had come from to buy such a place so quickly. She had tried snooping through her mother’s temporary study at the guest house, but Lady Kate had caught her in the halls before she could even make it to the office.

Red.

A wave of disgust hit Zarai as she thought about the money being wasted—funds that could have repaired roads, rebuilt bathhouses or improved Puerto Vira. Instead, it was funneled into a country they barely visited, spent on a mansion her mother would use for a season every other year.

The knot in her stomach formed and tightened painfully. She was so far from the guest house now. Far from friends. Far from Fritz and—

[color=dd9562]“[I]Niña![/i]”[/color] Francesca’s sharp voice snapped her out of her thoughts. [color=dd9562]“Stop standing around and help me! Show these imbeciles where the drawing room is. Must I do everything myself?”[/color] Her mother brushed past her, not sparing a glance as she insulted the workers to their faces.

Zarai cringed, her heart sinking as the men carrying the red velvet sofa exchanged a wordless glance. [color=93a477]"I am so sorry about her,"[/color] she whispered, knowing they wouldn’t—couldn’t—respond. She led them silently to one of the many drawing rooms, her stomach churning with each step.

[color=93a477][center]『  ❀  』[/center][/color]

	[color=silver][i]**Sola 25, 1739 - 8:30pm, Casa del Sol**[/i][/color]

[color=dd9562]“You were right about the iron shipments. Our supplier’s prices have gone up, but I’d rather pay the premium than let Varian merchants meddle in our business.”[/color] Francesca, to Zarai’s right, said before sipping her red wine with mastered elegance.

[color=8B7765]“A wise decision, Your Grace. Keeps things tightly within your control.”[/color] Lord Monet, across the table, nodded, cutting into his steak. The blood dripped from the meat onto the porcelain plate, making her stomach twist. [color=8B7765]“Besides, with the premium, you can report certain quantities as ‘lost’ en route to Sorian, letting you claim back some taxes on paper.”[/color]

[color=dd9562]“Perfect. Now, the new route expansion—how are we progressing on that? If we can avoid unnecessary tariffs, the railway toward Felippina will be that much more profitable.”[/color]

[color=8B7765]“I’ve already arranged alternate paths to cut down on the tolls. By directing goods along the coast and through…”[/color]

Their voices drifted into a monotonous hum as Zarai took another sip of her wine, its bitter sweetness mingling with the Alidashtian herb oil she’d rubbed under her tongue before dinner, each sip pulling her further into a fog of artificial calm. The nice fluffy haze dulled the sharp edges of her discomfort, a welcomed feeling from the weight of their boring conversation.

The discussion was important, and it was unlike her mother to discuss business while Zarai was still in the room. Francesca’s confidence in Zarai’s state of inebriation seemed to have convinced her to speak freely with the bloated, oily Lord Monet. Who could not stop glancing her way with a repulsive mix of condescension and lust.

[color=93a477][i]Why is he looking at me with those nasty-ass eyes, like a bloated hog sizing up its next meal?[/i][/color] Zarai’s thoughts churned, venomous and relentless. [color=93a477][i]He’s a festering insult to decency itself, waddling around reeking of wet dog and desperation. If mirrors don’t shatter at his reflection, it’s only because they pity the glass more than him.[/i][/color] Her grip tightened on her fork, her knuckles whitening as she fought to keep her face neutral as she chewed on her steak.

Soon, it all began to blend together into a formless droning in her mind, the flames of the candle flickering hypnotically before her.

Right, left. Left, right.

Dancing in the middle of the room, the fire moved like nothing else mattered—not their conversation, not the growing discomfort clawing at her insides. Zarai's gaze locked on the flickering flame, her heart aching with envy. She wanted to be that fire—untouchable, unrelenting, free.

Left, right.

Right, left.

Up, down.

Down, up.

The flame twisted and swayed, alive in its dance. [I]Dance[/i], it seemed to whisper to her. [I]Dance until there's nothing left[/i]. Her mind spun with the rhythm, her heart echoing the frantic tempo. Zarai wanted to be that fire. Let it take her. To burn, burn, burn until every piece of her was charred, her existence finally extinguished.

Then, all at once, the haze lifted, jolting her back to the sharp reality as something cold and hard pressed against her ankle beneath the table.

Zarai’s posture stiffened, and her eyes widened briefly as she looked at Monet. He sat there, a smug smile on his lips as he continued to talk to her mother. As if his shoe were not slowly teetering closer to her knee. It was like a poison slowly seeping past the fabrics of her dress and into her skin, slow and poisonous. Nasty. Disgusting.

Bile rose in her throat, and she glanced toward her mother, her eyes pleading for intervention—for anything. For a split second, their icy gazes met, a flash of awareness crossing Francesca's face, but she turned back to her wine, swirling with passive indifference. Zarai’s heart sank like a stone to the bottom of that snowy lake she often dreamed of, where darkness stretched endlessly. Her pulse throbbed in her ears as she struggled to draw breath, her mind recoiling in disgust.

[color=8B7765]“Indeed. And, Your Grace, the increased demand in Caesonia will mean we’re only just beginning to see returns— Agh!”[/color] Lord Monet’s fork clattered against his plate as he reached under the table, his blazer sleeve catching on his plate, sending the bloody remnants of his meal splattering across the pristine fabrics of his tails. His expression twisted into one of annoyance, embarrassment, and something else Zarai knew all too well.

She’d kicked him. Hard and on his shin with her pretty crystal-encrusted shoe. She hoped it bled. She hoped it hurt to the bone and left a nasty, ugly bruise.

He tried to rub his shin, but the mess on his chest only slipped down and splatted on the floor with a disgusting wet sound.

The silence that had fallen in the dining room broke as Zarai’s chair scraped loudly against the marble as she rose, her hands steady despite the anger simmering under her skin. She smoothed her dress, keeping her expression calm as she locked eyes with her mother. [color=93a477]“Excuse me, I am not feeling well.”[/color]

[color=dd9562]“Zarai Luzero Lesdeman!”[/color] Francesca’s voice lashed out as she stood, sharp and cutting, as she yanked Zarai back by the arm and delivered a stinging slap across her face. [color=dd9562]“You will not be rude to our guest! [I]Este no es un comportamiento apropiado para una dama de tu posición![/i]”[/color]

	[i]Roll.[/i]
    
      	[i]Roll.[/i]

Her vision blurred, and her ears rang for a second before Zarai brushed her faded copper tresses from her face to look at Francesca with burning cold eyes. [color=93a477][I]“Eso sería todo?”[/I][/color] Her voice was devoid of emotion, even as her insides screamed. She wanted nothing more than to pick up the porcelain plates and hurl them across the room. Wanted to take the candle holder and plunge it into Monet’s stupid eyes so he could never look at her again. Wanted to burn this house to the ground with them inside of it. [color=93a477]“Excuse me.”[/color] Was all she said as she curtseyed stiffly and left the room.

[color=93a477][center]『  ❀  』[/center][/color]

The moment the door closed behind her, Zarai kicked off her shoes and tore at her dress, desperate to be rid of the suffocating layers trapping her. With blurred vision and shaky fingers, she managed to pry her corset off. It fell with a soft thud, joining the layers of expensive yellow silk and lace pooling around her feet.

She stood in her new pristine room in only her undergarments, decorated with the same excess as the rest of the house. Her skin still felt choked, as if it could never be free.

Zarai stumbled to the window and flung it open, greedily gulping the cool night air, as if she could force out the sickening filth clinging to her skin. But the air did nothing to alleviate it. She still felt it. His presence. There. Polluting her.

Her hands drifted to her legs.

She rubbed at her skin, as if she could erase the feeling of his shoe pressing against her. But rubbing did nothing. The touch was still there. Crawling up her thigh like a slow-burning sickness.

She scratched.

Harder.

Harder.

Blood beaded beneath her nails, smeared across her thighs in jagged lines. Her breath came in sharp gasps, her body shivering from something deeper than the cold night air. But she couldn’t stop.

Because she had seen it.

Francesca had known. She had looked Zarai dead in the eye and done nothing.

Zarai’s entire body convulsed with a shudder, and she pressed a trembling hand against her mouth. It wasn’t Monet. It wasn’t just him. It had never just been Monet. It was the way this world was built, the way her mother allowed it, the way it was as normal as breathing.

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[color=93a477][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

[color=92966e][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

She should have said it in the morning.

She should have confessed her thoughts-–her darkest, most forbidden thoughts—to him.

Damn his trusting eyes, his silent acceptance, his understand that made her believe she could bare the ugliest corners of her heart to him.

[color=908866][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

[color=8e7a5d][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

Damn his gentle words of encouragement, that quiet hope he kept planting in her heart, urging her to riise above it all.

[color=8d6d54][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

[color=8c5f4c][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

And damn the way she could feel the weight of his disappointment, a bitter ache twisteing in her gut.

[color=8a5143][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

[color=7b4a3e][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

Breathing.

It dragged her like a tide, suffocating.

Endless.

Her mother’s face.

[color=6b4238][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

[color=5c3b33][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

Contempt.

Que lastima.

Basta. Pobrecita.

[color=4d342e][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

[color=3e2d29][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

Zarai sucked in a breath.

Her fingers were numb.

Her legs were slick with red.

[color=2e2523][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

[color=1f1e1e][i]Roll.[/i][/color]

Her reflection in the glass window stared back at her—wild-eye, unrecognizable.

She still, she felt nothing.

Not the pain. Not the relief. Just… weight.

Heavy.

Settling in her bones.

Not the kind of numb she liked.

No, this one was worse.

[color=141313][sub][sub]C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k !
Like tiny bells in her mind. Ringing and raging. All around. Everywhere and nowhere.[/sub][/sub][/color]

This one was real.
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