The second half of the night felt like an endless and torturous nightmare for Cynthia. She lay in bed, her eyes fixed on the dark ceiling, her thoughts tangled like a chaotic web.
She drifted in and out of restless sleep until the first rays of dawn quietly seeped into the room.
When Cynthia finally opened her eyes, a single word stabbed into her heart like a sharp dagger—mistress.
Yes, today was the first day she had agreed to become Lucien's mistress.
She slowly got up, allowing the maid, Vicky, to dress her in the luxurious clothes Lucien had prepared and apply delicate makeup—everything was flawless, down to the finest detail.
Yet, in Cynthia's eyes, the reflection in the mirror was unbearable to look at.
No matter how she viewed it, she felt like a heavily adorned woman waiting for a client—no different from a prostitute. Or perhaps, like a meticulously groomed bird in a gilded cage—granted beautiful feathers but stripped of the freedom to soar, trapped within these wal
