Forty-one years ago
I stand in the corner of the lavish sitting room, my hands clutched tightly behind my back, the ache in my shoulders a dull reminder of how long I've held this posture. Exhaustion weighs heavy on me—not just from today, but from months, perhaps even years, of moments like this. Endless confrontations, scoldings, and accusations that seem to play on repeat.
The air crackles with tension, thick and suffocating. Sunlight streams through the tall, arched windows, casting long, golden beams across the polished marble floors. The delicate scent of jasmine tea lingers in the air, but even that soothing aroma does little to calm the storm brewing before me.
"What is this?!" Concubine Danielle's shrill voice slices through the silence like a whip. She slams a newspaper onto the mahogany table with such force that the porcelain tea set rattles precariously. Her perfectly manicured finger jabs at the bold headline splashed across the front page.
