Die Rache einer Frau

In a baroque ballroom where chandeliers drip like frozen tears, a countess trades her pearl choker for the crimson choker of the street, each carnal transaction a brushstroke on the canvas of her husband’s ancestral shame. The film unspools like a fevered harpsichord sonata: she lounges in velvet antechambers, counting the heartbeats until her aristocratic spouse—his monocle a cold moon—discovers her scent on every dockside mattress. With every client she accumulates not coins but fragments of his honor, stitching them into a spectral banner that will one day unfurl across the family escutcheon. When the husband finally kneels in the muck, clutching the blood-spattered glove of the lover he drowned in a frozen pond, the countess laughs—an icicle splintering inside a cathedral. The final tableau freezes her silhouette against the palace gates, a black lily blooming where cobblestones remember the echo of hooves.