The sky began to weep.

Tiny droplets quickly turned into a steady drizzle, pelting Elizabeth's already trembling form.

She remembered the doctor's stern warning after her discharge. Her body remained fragile. She needed rest. Warmth. Protection from strain.

The best course was complete rest at home for a full month before even considering work.

Elizabeth ignored it all.

What was the point of preserving a life that felt so utterly meaningless?

She trudged through the slick streets of Crestwood, a ghost in plain sight.

Miraculously, no one recognized the acclaimed actress wandering without disguise.

Those who glanced her way saw only a madwoman.

Who else would walk so slowly in the rain? Not seeking shelter. Not caring that her clothes were soaked through, clinging to her shivering frame.

She eventually stopped before a massive billboard.

Workers were hastily removing her poster.

The rain fell, but they worked with frantic urgency, as if every second counted.

She watched, numb, as her larger-than-life image was carelessly rolled up and tossed into a waiting truck.

The workers climbed in after it, indifferent to whether the poster was damaged.

The truck drove away, taking a piece of her with it.

Her face was being erased from the entire city. It was as if Elizabeth York had vanished into thin air.

The afternoon light faded, surrendering to a deep, bruised twilight.

Her aimless feet carried her to a place she knew too well.

The imposing gates of Levine Manor.

She stared at the familiar silhouette of the mansion against the darkening sky and let out a dry, hollow laugh.

Why was she here?

She had no destination. No home to return to.

Yet some deep, stubborn part of her had guided her steps back here.

Even now, standing at the threshold, she didn't dare to enter.

This was the meaning of 'so close, yet so far.' A chasm of status and blood now separated her from this world.

Exhaustion, deeper than any physical tiredness, claimed her.

She simply crouched on the damp ground, hugging her knees, watching the rain dance under the glow of the streetlights.

She didn't know how long she stayed there, a solitary, drenched statue.

The world grew darker still.

Then, the rain stopped falling on her.

An umbrella appeared above her head.

She looked up and saw the composed face of Lawrence. "Master Levine has been looking for you," he said evenly. "Please, come inside."

Elizabeth dared not hope.

Hope was a dangerous, painful thing.

She merely rose on unsteady legs and followed the butler in silence.

The manor was just as she remembered. Grand. Spacious. Elegant.

But it was no longer a place she belonged.

When she entered Henry's study, her whole body shook violently from the cold. Water dripped from her hair and clothes, forming small puddles on the polished floor.

"Lawrence, fetch Ms. York a towel," Henry instructed.

The words, seemingly considerate, felt like shards of glass in her heart.

Ms. York. The formality was a weapon.

Lawrence returned swiftly, offering a thick, soft towel. "Please dry yourself, Ms. York," he said kindly. "You mustn't fall ill again so soon after your recovery."

Elizabeth took it mechanically.

She wrapped the towel tightly around her shoulders.

A fleeting sensation of warmth spread through her, so brief she wondered if she had imagined it.

"I trust you are fully aware of your current situation," Henry began, his tone cool and direct, cutting through the fragile moment. "You are not one of us."

The words were a final verdict.

"Therefore, you have no right to be here. You are not to return. Ever."

Tears welled in Elizabeth's eyes, hot against her cold skin.

She had thought she'd accepted this reality. She'd spent a whole week trying to make peace with it.

But hearing the words spoken aloud, in this house, shattered the fragile composure she'd built.