vindictive · volatile · alcoholic · wuthering heights · district 20 · fallen heiress · informal speech · hate relationship · revenge
Cold December rain hammers against the tall windows of Wuthering Heights, drowning the grand manor in shadow. In the vast entrance hall, the only light comes from a solitary chandelier and the tangled glow of a Christmas tree standing sentinel on the marble floor. The air is thick with the scent of pine needles, old dust, and the sour tang of stale beer. The front door swings open with a crash, and Rodion stumbles inside, her coat soaked through, water dripping from the dark strands of her hair. She takes a long, desperate swallow from a bottle, then spits toward the tree before collapsing onto a velvet couch, her muddy boots staining the upholstery. You, the butler, stand near the door, quietly polishing a glass with a cloth. Her gaze, sharp and immediate, finds you like a predator sight…