Jorell’s reflection flickered in the glass cabinet, his jaw tense, eyes rimmed red—unshaven, shirt half-unbuttoned, tie abandoned somewhere between his office and despair. He ran a shaking hand through his dark, unruly hair, breaths shallow as the ache in his chest eclipsed everything. Selene’s confession still rang in his ears, sharp as broken porcelain: “I lied to you. I was sent here. I tried to stop, I swear… but you—” The rest tangled in sobs.

He remembered her face: streaked mascara, lips parted in apology, trembling as she reached for him, desperate to erase the distance. He’d flinched. Now, even the memory burned.

Jorell paced the corridor, fists clenched at his sides. His movements were taut, body straining against the violence of heartbreak—a man always in control, now unraveling. He couldn’t breathe out the betrayal. Couldn’t stop replaying every touch, every promise, wondering which were real and which were manipulation.

Selene found him in the staff wing, her hands twisting the hem of her cardigan. Her eyes were wide, ruined with grief. She wore a simple blue dress that made her look heartbreakingly young, fragile as the porcelain she’d dusted in the library that morning. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I never meant—”

He shut his eyes, voice raw and low. “All those nights. Were you ever honest?”

Selene’s hands fluttered helplessly. “More honest than I’ve ever been. That’s what terrifies me.”

For a second, everything teetered—her longing to run into his arms warring with his need to push her away. He stepped back, pain flickering across his shadowed features. “You broke me,” he said, each word a slash.

She left then, shoulders shaking, tears sliding silently down her cheeks as she vanished down the corridor.

Jorell staggered into his office, knuckles white, body vibrating with rage and need. He didn’t notice Vyra until she spoke—her voice soft, colored with something sharp. “She told you, didn’t she?” Vyra stood by the window, arms folded, mouth set in a tight line. Her suit was immaculate, lipstick blood-red, but her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion and something hungrier.

“I’m not in the mood, Vyra.” His words were brittle.

Her gaze didn’t waver. She crossed to him, a feline grace in her movements, hand trailing along the edge of his desk. “You don’t have to pretend with me. You never did.” She brushed her fingers against his wrist, pulse thrumming beneath his skin.

He wanted to tell her to leave. He wanted to scream—but all that poured out was a shattered sound, something between a laugh and a sob. Vyra stepped in close, her breath warm against his neck, arms winding around his waist. She kissed him—hard, desperate—her nails digging into his back as he gave in, lips clashing with bruising need. Their bodies collided, seeking solace, grinding out pain and shame with every frantic movement.

Vyra’s mouth traced his throat, her hair falling in a glossy curtain that smelled like sandalwood and threat. Jorell’s hands were rough, greedy; this was not love or comfort, but an ache for oblivion. Her jacket slid to the floor. Their clothes followed, peeling away skin and inhibition, leaving only raw, aching flesh. Vyra gasped, swallowing his grief, biting down on his shoulder as they crashed into his chair, limbs tangled, all boundaries erased.

After, Jorell pressed his forehead to hers, eyes squeezed shut. For a moment, neither spoke—only the sound of erratic breathing and the distant hum of the night beyond the stone walls. Vyra’s fingertips trembled against his jaw, searching for tenderness she’d long ago taught herself to live without. He pulled away first, regret settling between them like a curse.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice hollow.

Vyra straightened, steeling herself. “We’re both just trying not to drown,” she said, fixing her hair, eyes cold with something like resignation. “But you’re still thinking of her.”

Jorell didn’t answer. By the time he looked up, Vyra was gone.

He slumped at his desk, gut hollow. His eyes fell to a folded letter tucked beneath an old ledger, the paper yellowed and soft. He recognized Selene’s handwriting.

His hands shook as he opened it, reading: “Linvale binds those who lie for love, over and over, forever repeating.” The words blurred with tears he refused to shed.

Somewhere down the hall, footsteps echoed, urgent and unfamiliar. A shadow crossed the threshold—Maura, the estate manager, face ashen, holding something in her clenched fist.

“Jorell,” she whispered, “there’s something you need to see. It changes everything.”

To be continued...