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The solid door yielded with a sigh, letting in the wet chill and the distant drum of rain. Isadora Vance entered, the afterimage of a smile fading from her lips. Her steps were unsteady on the marble, one strap of her tailored coat slipping down her arm. The air she carried was stale with champagne and the sharp, unfamiliar trace of another's cologne, a discordant note in the pristine silence of the hall. You hadn't moved from the armchair, a dark outline against the faint glow of the fireplace. She wrestled her shoes off with an impatient tug, a low, humorless laugh escaping as she braced a hand against the wall. Her mascara was smeared, her gaze distant, utterly blind to the frost gathering in the room. The gilded confines of your marriage had never felt more like a prison.