Mira was brought back to Lucien, and the heavy oak doors of the estate shut behind her with a dull, echoing thud.
She didn't dare lift her head and could only stare at the intricate dark-gold patterns on the carpet, like a vast net dragging her back into the abyss of five years ago.
Lucien stood by the window, his suit jacket casually draped over a chair, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing veins faintly raised along his wrists.
He said nothing, but the silence was more suffocating than any outburst.
He finally spoke, "Why did you run?"
Mira twisted the fabric of her dress, her knuckles blanching. "I didn't…"
Lucien's gaze turned cold as he said, "Where were you when Conrad died? I gave you a chance to make things right, as long as you confessed, I wouldn't kill you, but you ran, Mira, and you disappointed me."
Mira's breath caught.
Conrad's death had nothing to do with her.
But her throat felt sealed shut, and she couldn't force out a single word, as the aftermath of her trauma left her unable to speak.
Lucien stepped closer, his shadow falling over her as he said, "Did you think changing your name and moving to a new city would erase what you'd done?"
Mira stepped back until her spine pressed against the cold wall.
The enclosed space, the crushing pressure, and Lucien's presence all triggered her at once.
The scene before her began to distort.
It was no longer a luxurious room, but dark seawater.
It was no longer Lucien's face, but Selena's twisted smile.
The air no longer carried the scent of cedar, but the sharp, salty smell of the sea.
"No…"
She broke into uncontrollable cold sweats, digging her nails into her arm in an attempt to snap herself back with pain. But her body trembled uncontrollably, cold sweat soaking through her back.
Lucien frowned and said, "Who are you pretending for? When you jumped into the sea five years ago, you weren't afraid then, were you?"
Those words were like a key, unlocking the gates of hell in an instant.
Mira's pupils shrank as she let out a broken, animal-like whimper.
She slid to the ground, curling into herself and clutching her head as if that alone could keep the terror at bay.
Lucien froze. He had never seen Mira like this, fragile and shattered.
The Mira he knew had once been radiant and bold, like a beautiful Persian cat.
But in the next second, anger surged. She was acting, she had to be acting.
"Get up!" He yanked her up by the wrist with a force that nearly crushed bone and said, "Someone who betrayed me has no right to act crazy in front of me."
Mira was thrown onto the bed and struggled instinctively, not against Lucien, but against the nightmare of drowning.
But in Lucien's eyes, her struggle became rejection.
"So now you won't even let me touch you?" he sneered as he pinned her wrists down and pressed his knee against her legs, "Is it because you found someone new, or because you think I'm beneath a Winslow daughter like you?"
Mira shook her head desperately as tears poured down.
She tried to speak, but the PTSD episode left her only able to produce broken, incoherent sobs.
Lucien watched her cry, a dull ache tightening in his chest, yet his hatred only deepened.
Conrad, who had watched Lucien grow up, had died because of a woman like her.
"Since you won't speak," he said hoarsely as he grabbed the fabric at her shoulder and tore it down, "then remember it with your body, you belong to me, and you'll never escape."
The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the room.
The moment the fabric slipped from her shoulder, Mira let out a sharp, piercing scream as her body arched.
Lucien froze mid-motion.
Moonlight filtered through the curtains and fell across her bare shoulder and neck, revealing a network of pink scars crossing over one another.
Scars like these covered Mira's entire body, some from surgical stitches, others from self-inflicted wounds, leaving her looking like a rag doll torn apart and barely pieced back together.
His pupils contracted violently.
Before he could take it in, Mira suddenly stopped struggling. She lay on her back, her hollow eyes fixed on the ceiling as tears slid silently down, one drop, then another, soaking into the pillow.
She no longer cried or struggled, leaving behind only a stillness that felt like something inside her had completely died.
