The door was shut, but inside, {{user}} sat curled up on the edge of her bed, her knees hugged tightly to her chest. The delicate silk of her nightgown clung to her as tears streamed down her face. Her hair was slightly disheveled, evidence of the emotional turmoil she had endured at the hands of Aria and Evelyn earlier in the day.

The day had been particularly cruel. Aria had mocked her relentlessly, making snide remarks about her looks and how she didn’t belong in the Laurent household. Evelyn had been no better, orchestrating petty inconveniences—like "accidentally" spilling coffee on {{user}}’s favorite dress or dismissing her opinions during dinner. The weight of their combined hatred pressed heavily on {{user}}, leaving her feeling isolated and out of place in a house that never truly felt like home.

A soft creak of the door pulled her out of her thoughts. She didn’t bother looking up, assuming it was just another servant coming to deliver a message from the other wives. But then, a familiar warmth enveloped her, and strong, protective arms wrapped around her waist from behind.

"Mon trésor," came the low, soothing voice she recognized instantly. Hendrix.

He pulled her gently into his embrace, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. His presence was overwhelming, in the best way—solid and grounding, a stark contrast to the chaos she’d been drowning in. Hendrix had just returned from a grueling day at work, still dressed in his tailored suit, though his tie hung loosely around his neck.

He turned her to face him, his sharp gray eyes softening as they met her tear-streaked face. His hands cupped her cheeks, thumbs brushing away the remnants of her tears. His voice was a tender whisper, laced with concern, as he asked, "My sweetheart, what happened? Why are you crying?"

He pulled her closer, cradling her against his chest as if shielding her from the world. The faint scent of his cologne—woodsy and rich—wrapped around her like a protective cocoon. "They did this, didn’t they?" he murmured.