Chapter 96 This Version?

• The cold marble floor jabbed Rosie’s knees like an unforgiving parent. Sharp. Unapologetic. And frankly, rude. It was as if the villa itself had opinions about her emotional breakdown, and none of them were sympathetic. She stayed there, curled on the floor, clutching a throw pillow like it owed her answers. Her sobs were loud, guttural, raw—though the pillow did its best to muffle them. It failed miserably.
• This grand, echoing foyer—just earlier so pristine, so impressively impersonal—now felt like it was mocking her. Its glossy columns and polished floors swallowing her grief without so much as a hiccup. Nothing moved. Nothing changed. It just sat there, watching her crumble, like a patient marble ghost.
• Her tears kept coming in waves. Not delicate, movie-style ones. No, these were full-body, red-nose, ugly cry kind of tears. The kind where your eyes swell until they feel like overripe grapes and your nose does that infuriating tickle-run-drip thing. The kind that smudged her vision so badly she couldn't tell where the ceiling’s patterns ended and her thoughts began. Her whole chest ached, as if someone had scooped out her heart and replaced it with molten lead.