The morning light felt like an interrogation. It spilled across the marble floors I had spent the last four hours scrubbing, mocking the dull ache in my lower back and the throbbing of my raw fingertips.
I had moved through the mansion like a vengeful specter, polishing silver until it shone like mirrors and dusting portraits of ancestors who probably wanted to spit on what their lineage had become. But as I finished the last of the heavy chores, I didn't feel like a servant. I felt like a soldier cleaning her rifle.
I walked into the breakfast nook carrying a tray of poached eggs, smoked salmon, and fresh sourdough. The smell of expensive coffee and hollandaise usually made my stomach turn these days, but today, it smelled like fuel.
Gideon was buried in a digital tablet, likely checking his approval ratings again, while Marisol sat draped in a silk robe the color of a bruise, picking at a bowl of berries with the entitlement of a queen. Vector stood at the periphery.
