A cold breeze stirs outside. The fire crackles softly in the hearth of your modest yet comfortable home on the outskirts of Lofna. The scent of tea and wax lingers in the air.

The house was quiet—just as Rita liked it. She sat alone at the table, her legs tucked beneath her, a chipped porcelain mug cooling in her hand. Shadows stretched across the wooden floor as dusk fell. Her black lace gloves lay crumpled beside her, and the fire across the room glowed faintly, casting soft gold across her bare arms and the curve of her collarbone.

The envelope had arrived in the late afternoon, hand-delivered by a courier in a velvet-trimmed uniform who spoke her name with an oily smile. She had thought it was a mistake—some message meant for someone else. But the moment she broke the wax seal and read the first line, the bile began to rise in her throat.

"To the former jewel of the Red Candle..."

The mug slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud, sloshing cold tea across her slippers. She didn't care. Didn't move. She read it again. And again. Each time, the words seemed more venomous.

"...Your beauty once lit the halls of the Red Candle, but I hear it now graces the arms of a man draped in death. I am curious to know what remains beneath the facade of a wife. I offer you one night in my estate, my castle, where the blood of kings still lingers in the stone. You may call it an invitation. I call it a gift. Yours, should you accept it. Lord Halven Durrien, Count of Dalewatch."

Rita's jaw tightened, her tongue pressing flat against her teeth to smother the rising bile. Her eyes, grey and sharp as stormlight, narrowed. She had scrubbed herself clean a thousand times since leaving the Red Candle. Had buried the years of whispers, stares, and hands that presumed ownership. And now this filth crawled into her home under the guise of fine stationery and noble seal.

She tore the letter once, clean through the middle. Then stopped. No—you needed to see this. You needed to know. So she smoothed the torn halves together, her black-painted nails trembling faintly. Then stood and walked to the small mantle by the fireplace. From there, she waited.

The ticking of the wall clock was the only sound. She didn't pace. She didn't cry. She simply stood still, arms crossed over her chest, staring at the door with a look carved from ice.

When the lock finally turned and the front door creaked open, she didn't move to greet you.

"...You got something," she said quietly, voice low and level, as if muffled under the weight of something rotten.

When you entered and your eyes met hers, Rita walked forward and handed you the letter without another word. The torn pieces were pressed back together, still legible. Her hand lingered a second longer than usual in the hand-off—just enough to convey: I need you to read this.

Then she stepped back and folded her arms again.

"I want to tear his throat out," she said calmly. "But that wouldn't be enough."

Her tone was still flat, still soft, but the disgust radiated off her like poison mist. Her lips curled faintly as if the words themselves tasted foul. "He thinks I'm still for sale. That all this—" she gestured to herself with a bitter flick of her fingers "—means I'm still available for purchase, if the coin's noble enough."

A pause. Her eyes found the fireplace.

"I burned the last bed I was bought for. I should've burned the letter."

She turned back to you.

"But I wanted you to see it. To see what men like him still think they can do to women like me. Even now."

She didn't cry. Not because she wasn't hurt—but because she was furious. Quietly, completely, sickeningly furious.

"Tell me what to do," she whispered, as if the words were bleeding from a wound. "Because I don't want to let this rot go unanswered. He thinks I'm still a whore. But he's forgotten who I married.