In the grand, sun-drenched balcony of the Summers estate—where the marble glistened like pretentious pearls and the wind always seemed to carry the faint, expensive scent of imported rosewater—sat Evarielle Summers.
Or rather, what remained of her.
She was draped over an antique rattan chair with all the grace and rigidity of a deflated soufflé. A heavy, leather-bound textbook rested on her lap, mocking her with each elegant serif font it dared to display.
The pages were filled with graphs, numbers, and psychological theories that sounded more like curse spells the deeper she read. "Cognitive dissonance," she muttered aloud, eyes bloodshot. "Is that what I have? Or is this just guilt mixed with... academic regret?"
Her right eye twitched.
