The water scalded as it hit her skin. Silent maids moved around her like ghosts, scrubbing, rinsing, dressing her in something that smelled like roses and money. The bruises bloomed beneath their touch, raw and unhidden, but no one flinched. Not them. Not her.
Her robe was gone. In its place, a pale lavender dress with capped sleeves and a cinched waist. Elegant. Controlled. The zipper dragged slowly up her spine like a seal being pressed into flesh.
No one spoke.
The final touches were clinical: a light gloss on her lips, a brush through her damp hair. Her wrists were red from heat, her face puffy but powdered. One of the maids handed her a pair of soft slippers.
And then they left.
Ivy stood alone in the bathroom, the sound of the faucet still dripping into silence.
She stepped toward the mirror.
The girl who stared back wasn’t her. Not the Ivy from her art studio floor in her house. Not the girl who once laughed with Killian in his cabin or whispered dreams of freedom under a Tuscan
