With the cold, methodical precision of an artisan, Olivia bound Isabella's wrists behind her back.
Each knot was cinched with a practiced ease—the terrifying grace of someone who had rehearsed this betrayal in the quiet theater of her mind long before the first blow was struck.
Satisfied with the constraint, Olivia rose to her full height.
Her gaze swept across the room with clinical detachment before finally anchoring on Kira.
"Take her," she commanded.
Kira's face drained of color, her breath hitching in her throat.
"T-Take her where, my lady?"
Olivia paused, her eyes roaming the shadows of the room as if weighing the aesthetics of the house against the necessity of the act.
Then, with a casual flick of her wrist toward the hallway—she spoke.
"The bathroom should suffice."
Kira remained frozen, her eyes darting between her mistress's icy composure and the broken, gasping woman slumped upon the floor.
"Now, Kira."
