Morpheus wasn't deterred by her cold refusal. He never was.
After all, their mother had been the same as her. She was a distant, unapproachable, and far too proud of a woman. And yet, for all her coldness, she had been a woman who made one mistake while trying to fix another, weaving herself into a trap of her own making. A foolish, naive creature who thought she could outmaneuver fate.
Ariel hadn't just inherited her mother's features. She had inherited her illusions too.
Morpheus tapped his finger lightly against the rim of the teacup, his touch slow and deliberate, as if testing the fragility of the porcelain. His hum was soft, almost indulgent, a prelude to words that carried the weight of inevitability.
