Jackson turned and walked away without looking back, his tall figure disappearing beyond the door—leaving nothing but suffocating emptiness behind.
Helena changed into the clothes his people had brought—a delicate white dress that sat against her scarred body like an insult. The contrast between the fabric's elegance and the bruises beneath it made her feel absurd and hollow.
The bar was loud with music and chatter. The moment she entered, every head turned. Once, these were people who had fawned over her brilliance. Now, their eyes gleamed with ridicule and satisfaction—every smile sharpened with malice.
Laica sauntered over, her red slip dress hugging every curve, a wine glass in hand. "Helena, welcome back. Let me toast to you."
Helena stared at the crimson liquid and shook her head weakly. "I can't drink."
Her stomach had been ruined by years of spoiled food and filthy water. Now, even a drop of wine would burn like molten metal down her throat.
Laica's smile sharpened. She stepped closer, her voice soft but edged with poison. "I know you can't drink. But so what? Do you think you can refuse me today?"
Then, as if on cue, she turned teary-eyed toward Jackson.