Evelyn's POV
The kitchen smelled faintly of roasted herbs and butter, yet to Evelyn, the scent was as lifeless as ash. Her hands moved mechanically, cracking eggs into a pan, whisking them until the yolk swirled into a golden whirlpool, and pressing bread against the iron griddle until it browned. The motions were easy, repetitive, and familiar. But this morning, every sound felt distant, the sizzle of the eggs, the clatter of utensils, the crackle of the firewood, it was as though she was underwater, detached from everything around her.
Her mind kept replaying what she had seen moments ago. The sight of Lucian lying bare, wrapped in the arms and mouths of those women, so at ease, so utterly indifferent, burned itself into her brain. She could still hear the small, breathy sounds they made, still see the way his hand had lazily stroked one of them as though it were nothing. As though she, Evelyn, had been nothing more than a servant caught interrupting a trivial indulgence.
