"Who is she, and what takes them to the marriage registry?" someone said in his head.
A young woman sat alone in a grand room that oozed luxury, yet couldn't mask the storm swirling inside her.
The space was drenched in opulence—ceiling-high velvet curtains of deep burgundy framed a pair of tall arched windows, their gold-tassel tiebacks falling gracefully to the side.
A shimmering crystal chandelier hung from the center of the tray ceiling, its prismatic light scattering across marble floors in a silent mockery of her misery.
The couch on which she sat was long and plush, upholstered in rich emerald-green velvet, trimmed with intricate gold carvings that curled like ivy at its legs and arms.
The cushions were a blend of silk and suede, too soft for comfort on a day like this.
Miranda reclined on the couch, her posture dramatically loose, head thrown back with her gaze fixed on the ornate ceiling above, as if it might offer answers.
