Elena Whitmore had always understood composure as inheritance.It was taught, not spoken. Learned in mirrors, in the pause before a smile, in the careful placement of hands at formal tables. Emotion was permitted only when it served a purpose. Vulnerability was a currency spent sparingly, if at all.That was how she had survived Aurelia.But on this afternoon, alone in the sitting room of her apartment overlooking Virex City, composure deserted her.The room was immaculate. Neutral tones. Art chosen for pedigree rather than beauty. Nothing here reflected chaos, and yet Elena stood in the center of it with her fingers trembling, breath shallow, thoughts spiraling beyond control.Lillian Bloom had said there was no love.
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