Seven days passed in the mansion as if time itself had grown lazy.
Morning came quietly, sunlight spilling over the estate's tall windows and gilded frames. Outside, the world shifted from pale dawn to bright day—but inside, the giant house remained as still as ever, its silence broken only by the faint sounds of servants that did not exist, and the steady rhythm of one boy's footsteps.
Inside a luxurious bedroom, Astarte stirred.
She let out a soft, unhurried yawn, the kind that came not from true tiredness but habit. The silk blanket slid down past her shoulder, revealing a sexy nightdress that clung to her curves, highlighting a body that looked both dangerous and impossibly alluring. The fabric traced her waist, her chest, and the smooth line of her hips, shimmering against her pale skin.
Her black horns framed her face like a crown, her deep purple hair spilling over the pillow and then cascading down her back as she pushed herself upright.
She turned her head.
