Picking Up the Pieces

The war was over, but the scars remained.

The Remington estate was eerily quiet the morning after Carlo’s death. The usual hum of staff moving about, the clinking of glasses in the dining room—it all felt subdued, as if the very walls of the house were mourning. The storm had passed, but everyone knew it had left them altered, shaped by the blood that had been spilled and the choices that could never be undone.

Sophia stood by the grand windows overlooking the garden, arms wrapped tightly around herself. The morning sun cast long shadows over the estate grounds, but its warmth did little to touch the coldness that settled in her bones. The bruises on her wrists from Carlo’s grip had faded to faint yellow marks, reminders of a fight that had tested every part of her. But the wounds inside—those were deeper, slower to heal.

She had pulled the trigger.

She had fought back.

She had survived.

And yet, survival did not come without a price.