The Duchess stood abruptly.
No words.
No breath.
Only the thunder of her heart crashing like waves inside her ribs.
Her hands moved before her mind caught up, snatching the box from the maid's trembling grasp.
Warm.
Wet.
Sticky.
Blood.
Fresh.
The velvet had soaked through.
She staggered back a step, the weight of it anchoring her soul in dread.
"No," she whispered, her voice a thread unraveling. "No, no—this can't be—"
The maid stood frozen, pale as chalk, unsure whether to flee or weep.
But the Duchess didn't wait.
Her fingers shook violently as she pried the box open.
And then—
The scent hit them.
Rancid. Metallic. Rot.
The kind of smell that made the stomach curl and the soul recoil.
Inside—
A severed hand.
Delicately placed.
Almost reverent.
The skin still warm.
The fingers curled slightly as if clinging to the last traces of life.
Painted nails.
Soft lilac.
The color she had painted.
For her.
And on the ring finger—
