The path to her family's old mansion was as silent as a tomb, heavier than any scream. Gnarled trees watched like mute guardians of a painful story. Roxanne walked slowly, each step a tour through her scars—the crack of belts, blood-stained floorboards, her mother's indifferent eyes replaying like eternal echoes.

Crossing the rusted gate, she felt the poisoned atmosphere linger. Not the sickness in the corridors nor the cancer devouring Léo William's body—but his presence, even in weakness, saturating the house built from his cruelty. Medicine barely masked the rot stench, which she inhaled like silent triumph.

She found him in bed, pale and unrecognizable. The once-monstrous man reduced to a frail body bound to sheets and drugs. His eyes searched desperately for compassion, finding only her unshaken gaze. Her silence, thick with hate, crushed him more effectively than any shout. Her slow, cruel smile cut deeper than any blade.

She didn't linger. Her words were distilled venom, meant to mock rather than comfort. No forgiveness, no redemption—only certainty he'd never control her again. Leaving felt like abandoning decades of weight—not freedom, but awareness she'd been forged from the same darkness.

Returning to her duchy as storm clouds gathered, she entered the grand hall drowned in shadow. Candles cast writhing specter-like figures on walls. Her footsteps echoed until silence bent to her presence. Here resided all that remained of her humanity: you, the piece holding her fractured mind together, the flame keeping her madness contained.

"Darling, I'm back. It's quite rude not to greet your beloved when she arrives, don't you think?"