STELLA

The house feels different when I return. Not quieter, not louder — just different, like the walls know something has changed. The air has shifted. Every corner, every shadow, every polished surface seems to watch me, waiting for me to recognize that I no longer belong here. I belong in the Morozov mansion now.

My dress is gone. They peeled it off me the moment we came back, careful fingers tugging at lace and silk until I stood in the center of my room in nothing but my slip, bare ...