The porcelain teacup trembles slightly as I place it back onto its delicate saucer. I exhale through my nose, steadying the irritation bubbling beneath my carefully composed exterior. The tea, despite its floral fragrance and the precise temperature at which it was brewed, is beginning to taste like regret.
Across from me, Mara and Elira stand like statues—too practiced, too quiet. Their silence has grown unnerving. I can almost feel their shared amusement beneath their obedient facades, both undoubtedly aware of what's coming. I narrow my eyes at them. Elira responds with the faintest curve of her lips, while Mara, ever the instigator, pretends to straighten the folds of my gown. Bold move.
The salon doors creak open with a softness that belies the chaos I instinctively know will follow. I allow myself one fleeting moment to close my eyes and wish for sudden death. A sharp, amused whisper coils through my mind like smoke.
