The air in the foyer of the Thorne mansion always smelled the same: fresh Casablancan lilies and stale, refrigerated fear.
I, Elena Thorne, stood before the antique Venetian mirror, a silent observer of my own disintegration. I watched my hands tremble slightly as I reached up to adjust the sapphire necklace my husband, Julian, had fastened around my throat only moments before. The gems were cold, heavy things, resting against my clavicle like drops of frozen blue fire.
“It matches your eyes, darling,” Julian had whispered, his fingers lingering too long on the nape of my neck, tightening the clasp until I had to suppress a gasp for air. “A perfect blue for a perfect object.”
He hadn’t meant it as a compliment. It was an appraisal. To Julian, I was not a wife; I was an asset, a line item on his balance sheet that required maintenance and strict management.
