Marisol’s chambers held that distinctive quietude unique to her domain—the mplight dimmed to a soft glow, curtains partially drawn against the encroaching dusk, the air carrying a subtle herbal warmth that soothed like a forgotten remedy. She lounged against the headboard, a book cradled in her hands, one leg tucked beneath her while the other extended nguidly across the embroidered coverlet, her posture the epitome of unhurried repose.

  The door burst open with abrupt force.

  “Unbelievable.”

  The Mistress strode in without pausing to shut it, her presence a tempest seeking an anchor, hands slicing through the air in sharp gestures, her breaths ced with raw exasperation.

  Marisol kept her eyes on the page, unflustered.

  “Well,” she murmured with gentle amusement, flipping to the next leaf, “good morning to you too.”

  The Mistress halted mid-stride, then pivoted on her heel, her gaze piercing.

  “Did you see her?” she demanded, voice taut with urgency. “Did you see what came out of that room?”

  Marisol’s focus lingered on the words before her. “I’ve seen plenty walk out of there.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” The Mistress snapped. “She looked fine. Laughing. Moving around. Making sense. She didn’t even seem—” She cut off, jaw clenching. “No bruises where there should’ve been. No falling apart. No crying. No mess afterward.”

  At st, Marisol raised her gaze, meeting The Mistress’s over the book’s edge with measured calm.

  “You sound disappointed.”

  The Mistress let out a sharp, humorless ugh. “Don’t py games.”

  “I’m not,” Marisol said evenly. “I’m just hearing you out.”

  Resuming her restless circuit, The Mistress’s boots echoed against the stone floor with deliberate rhythm, each step underscoring her agitation.

  “That wasn’t a real breaking. Not how it’s supposed to go. There’s a way it works. You know that. There’s order to it.” Her voice dropped, edged with something darker. “There’s always a price.”

  Marisol eased the book shut, pcing it aside with deliberate slowness, her movements a counterpoint to the storm brewing across the room.

  “And you didn’t spot any of that price,” she said.

  The Mistress whirled to face her fully. “I saw plenty.”

  “No,” Marisol countered in a hushed tone. “You saw what you expected to see.”

  The Mistress froze, her eyes narrowing to slits. “What do you mean by that?”

  Marisol adjusted her position, legs crossing with graceful intent, her demeanor reflective rather than combative. “You’re hunting for wreckage. You found none. So you think nothing got damaged.”

  The Mistress’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t turn this into some riddle.”

  “I’m not,” Marisol assured her. “I’m just ying it out.”

  A heavy pause enveloped them, the room’s quiet amplifying the unspoken tension.

  The Mistress’s words emerged quieter, more constrained. “She was giggling. In the bath. With Noa.” The admission twisted on her tongue, as if bitter. “Like a girl who’d just been... spoiled a little.”

  A subtle curve touched Marisol’s lips.

  “There it is.”

  The Mistress’s gaze ignited with warning. “Don’t.”

  “You’re mad because she didn’t come out crushed,” Marisol pressed on with even poise. “Because she wasn’t emptied out and ready to get put back together.”

  “She should’ve been,” The Mistress shot back. “That was the whole point.”

  Marisol reclined further into the pillows, regarding her with heightened curiosity, as if unraveling a puzzle. “Or maybe the point got made without all the drama.”

  The Mistress shook her head in vehement denial. “No blood. No fear. I doubt he didn’t even pick up the crop.”

  Marisol cocked her head slightly, her expression probing. “Did you want him to?”

  “That’s not—” The Mistress halted, regaining her composure before proceeding with caution. “That room is there for a reason. You don’t take someone apart just by talking.”

  Marisol’s smile deepened then—subtle, perceptive, ced with intimate understanding.

  “You do if you’re pulling apart the lies they’ve been holding onto to get by.”

  The Mistress held her stare, unyielding.

  “That’s not how it goes,” she said ftly.

  Marisol offered a light shrug. “It is if the break happens inside.”

  The Mistress let out a dismissive scoff. “You’re saying she broke harder than the rest of us? Without screaming? Without begging?”

  Marisol pondered the notion briefly, her fingers tracing the book’s spine absentmindedly.

  “Yeah,” she affirmed. Then, with a touch of levity, she added, “And if it helps, I’m pretty sure she had a great time.”

  The Mistress’s jaw tightened visibly, a muscle flickering.

  “You’re getting a kick out of this,” she accused, her voice ced with heat.

  Marisol’s smile gentled, carrying a hint of affection. “What I’m getting a kick out of is you realizing not every ending is yours to control.”

  Advancing a step nearer, The Mistress’s anger bubbled closer to the surface. “This isn’t funny. Something went off track.”

  Marisol sustained the eye contact, unwavering. “Or something clicked—just not the way you like.”

  The ensuing quiet grew dense, charged with unease.

  The Mistress released a measured breath through fred nostrils. “She didn’t look... owned.”

  Marisol’s gaze sparked with intrigue. “No.”

  “She looked,” The Mistress groped for the term, resenting its accuracy as it surfaced, “settled.”

  Marisol inclined her head in agreement. “That’s tougher to shake.”

  The Mistress averted her eyes, fingers curling into fists at her sides. “If this starts happening more—”

  “It won’t,” Marisol interjected with soft assurance. “Not unless you turn it into a thing.”

  The Mistress’s head snapped back, her scrutiny intense.

  Marisol locked eyes with her, steady and clear. “Watch yourself,” she advised in a whisper. “You’re not scared she belongs to him.”

  The Mistress remained silent, her expression a mask.

  “You’re scared,” Marisol concluded, “that she doesn’t belong to the room anymore.”

  The quietude that followed spoke volumes.

  In time, The Mistress drew herself upright, her poise reassembling like a well-fitted shield. “This isn’t done.”

  Marisol’s faint smile persisted. “No. It’s just changed.”

  Without further exchange, The Mistress pivoted and departed, the door smming shut with emphatic finality.

  Marisol lingered in her spot, her attention drifting to the vacant threshold.

  “Poor thing,” she whispered to the empty air. “She wanted ruins.”

  Retrieving her book once more, she nestled back into the cushions, the subtle grin enduring as she immersed herself anew.

  Elsewhere within the sprawling estate, echoes of ughter continued to resonate.

  And The Mistress had just confronted the unsettling truth: the Room could no longer be relied upon to behave.