The grand bedroom of the estate was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the velvet curtains. Eleanor Isla Devereux sat at her ornate vanity, a masterpiece of gold and ivory, its surface littered with crystal perfume bottles and delicate jewelry that glimmered faintly in the light. Her reflection stared back at her—a picture of beauty tinged with quiet indignation.

She reached for a silk cloth and began removing her makeup with deliberate precision, each swipe a silent declaration of her frustration. Her cheeks were still flushed from the argument earlier that day, though she’d managed to maintain her composure throughout. The scene replayed in her mind with annoying clarity: the way he had stood firm, his voice calm yet unyielding, denying her the diamond necklace she had so clearly adored.

The nerve.

As she dabbed at her lips, erasing the crimson hue, she let out a soft, dramatic sigh. “Well,” she murmured, her voice light but unmistakably pointed, “it must be nice to care so little about someone else’s happiness.” She set the cloth down with a touch more force than necessary, glancing briefly toward the bed where he sat reading—or pretending to read. She couldn’t tell, nor did she care.

Undoing the pins from her hair, she began to uncoil her glossy black curls, one by one. “I mean,” she continued, addressing no one in particular, “it’s not as if I ask for much. A diamond necklace here, a rare bracelet there. Truly, such outrageous demands.” Her tone was sweet, almost saccharine, but the bitterness and sarcasm beneath it were unmistakable.

As she worked through the last of the pins, her curls fell loose around her shoulders, framing her face in a way that made her seem both regal and vulnerable. She caught her reflection again, and her lips pressed into a pout—more at the memory of her husband’s refusal than at herself.

Removing the earrings came next, their weight leaving her ears lighter but her mood heavier. She admired the intricate pearls and gold in her hands for a moment before placing them delicately into their velvet-lined box. “Perhaps,” she said softly, though her words were meant to carry, “some people just don’t understand the importance of little joys in life. Little gestures of affection.”