It was a physical force, pushing me back, shoving me down, pressing me into my seat.
Slowly, I lowered myself.
Each burst of laughter, each smirk exchanged across the table, was a lash against my armor.
I felt small.Foolish.
A flickering flame, snuffed out by the sheer weight of their ridicule.
But beneath the shame, beneath the trembling?—
Something remained.
A whisper of anger.
A smoldering ember that refused to die.
It curled around my ribs, whispering of justice and change—a whisper I could not, would not, ignore.
Then—
Silence.
A heavy, oppressive hush descended upon the room, thick as a suffocating shroud.
And then, Lord Winston’s voice?—
Dripping with venom, slow and measured, slashing through the stillness like the tip of a dagger pressed against my throat.
“And what insight could you possibly offer, my delicate flower?”
He drawled the words, savoring them, letting them fester in the air between us.
“You flutter in ignorance while we brave souls wage battles beyond your feeble comprehension.”
The sneer in his voice was a serrated blade meant to wound.
Meant to humiliate.
It meant to remind me of my place.
“I… I… I know enough to imagine change might be in order,” I managed, though as the words left my lips, they felt fragile.
Truthfully, I knew little of my father’s dealings—only the whispers behind locked doors, the veiled warnings in Mary’s hushed tones, and the fear that coiled in my stomach when my brothers left and never returned.
My father’s chair crashed with violence that sent a shudder down my spine.
Then—
A thunderous slam.
His palm struck the polished wood, the force rattling the crystalware, the chandeliers quivering in their chains.
I flinched, shrinking back, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Regret sank its teeth into me.
“Elizabeth, that’s enough!”My father’s voice cracked like a whip, raw with barely restrained fury.
