Morrigan Whitmore stared into the grand mirror in her private chamber, the golden frame encrusted with rubies and emeralds glinting faintly in the candlelight. Her reflection was as perfect as ever—porcelain skin unmarked by age, her silvery-blue eyes as cold and sharp as the winter moon. Yet, behind the façade of beauty and perfection lay a storm of grief, rage, and memories she could never escape.
She traced the edge of the mirror with her fingers, her touch lingering. This mirror had witnessed the life she once lived—a life of nobility, grace, and privilege. Duchess Morrigan Whitmore, the people had called her, a name that once inspired respect and admiration. Her estate, nestled in the rolling green hills of Blackridge, had been a beacon of prosperity and power.