The opulent suite of the five-star London hotel glittered around her, but Mirabel Vexley barely registered a thing. Luxury had always been her language, her armor, her throne—but right now, every polished surface felt like a mirror reflecting her unraveling.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Thames glided by in a lazy, molten sweep of silver, the kind of serene afternoon scene tourists fawned over. To Mirabel, it felt like mockery—how dare the river remain so calm when her world was splintering?
Inside, the suite resembled a sanctuary crafted for a queen: silk drapes moving with the softness of breath, a crystal chandelier catching the light and scattering it into prismatic rainbows across the flawless marble floor, and a king-sized bed drowning in layers of Egyptian cotton. It was decadent. Lavish. Perfect.
On any other day, it would have grounded her. Reminded her who she was. Reminded her of the empire she'd sculpted with precision and blood and sheer determination.
