Chapter 2 - The Strike
Before Arthur could blink or register the blatant breach of protocol, a sharp shriek tore through the golden haze of the room like a jagged blade.
"Do not embarrass this family!"
Victoria materialized beside the table like an apparition of wrath. Clad in a dazzling gold sequin halter dress that clung like molten metal, her face was contorted into a mask of patrician fury, her heavy diamond necklace flashing violently under the chandelier light. Without a moment of hesitation, her right arm whipped through the air with terrifying velocity.
Crack.
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The backhand struck Clara squarely across the cheek, the raw kinetic force sending her head whipping to the side. The sting was immediate, hot, and blinding, leaving a bright crimson welt against her pale skin. Yet, within a fraction of a second, Clara’s head snapped back into place. There were no tears, no cowering submission, no instinctive gasp—only a cold, dead-eyed stillness that seemed to absorb the violence and reflect it back threefold.
Victoria stared at her, her manicured hand still hovering in the air, her mouth dropping open in a silent, horrified gasp of disbelief. Servants did not take a blow like a statue. Servants were supposed to break, to weep, to apologize. Clara simply looked at her as if she were already looking at a corpse.
