Chapter 2 - The Strike and the Whisper
Without a single word of warning, Eleanor raised her right hand and struck. The sound of the slap cracked through the immediate radius like a sharp pistol shot, breaking the civilized hum of the orchestra and conversation. The sheer force of the strike snapped Victoria’s head violently to the side, her silver tiara shifting slightly as dark strands of hair whipped across her face. The surrounding guests froze in collective shock, champagne flutes halting mid-air as the ambient music withered away into an appalling silence.
Victoria stood motionless for a harrowing second, her shoulders rigid, the burning sting of the blow radiating deep across her cheek and jawline. Slowly, three fierce, swollen crimson welts bloomed across her pale left cheek, standing out in stark, brutal contrast against her porcelain skin and white gown. She did not cry out. She did not stagger. She did not even raise a hand to cover the injury. Instead, her jaw locked into an impenetrable line, her lips pressing together until all color drained from them.
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Eleanor leaned in close, bringing her blood-red lips within an inch of Victoria’s ear, her breath smelling of bitter gin and vintage wine. Her voice dropped into a harsh, venomous whisper that carried the full weight of her aristocratic malice:
"A girl like you doesn't deserve to stand among people like us."
