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“How does it feel?”
On the night she is supposed to consummate her marriage, Daphne finds herself standing before Oswald Lawrence: celebrated war hero, national icon, and now her husband.
But the eyes staring back at her hold nothing but contempt.
“A woman dragged here as a prisoner of a defeated nation, only to end up sitting at the very top.”
His voice cuts sharply, each word steeped in mockery. Fresh from a bath, with damp hair and wearing only a robe, Oswald should have embodied a bride’s excitement.
Yet Daphne feels no flutter of anticipation, only the cold weight of reality.
“Today is the most disgraceful day of my life.”
And then—
“The day I most wish I could erase.”
The calm voice was cut off, syllable by syllable, as if the words were being chewed. And so began a night thick with contempt.
