Dinners of this level are like a lingering kiss that no one wanted, but everyone pretends to enjoy. The longer it lasts — the more numb your mouth becomes, the more clearly you feel the taste of metal.
Blood. Or money. There is no difference here.
After the photo shoot, we were released back to the tables, like trained dogs after general commands. Everyone was smiling, pretending to relax. Waiters served hot food, and wine flowed like water.
I could barely taste the food.
The knife and fork were right in my hands — Margaret would have approved. Wrists at the perfect angle. The back is straight. Every move is like an etiquette textbook for those who need to prove that they are "born here".
Inside-chaos.
Victor's words, his warm, viscid pleasantry, tinged with steel. The smudged hatred
