Eleanor leaned back in her chair, holding her wine glass delicately as she looked the elderly woman up and down with supreme condescension.

"Ew, what is this?" Eleanor sneered, her voice cutting through the silence of the room like a jagged shard of glass. She pointed a manicured finger at the plate. "This food has gone bad. Make it again."

Margaret’s hopeful smile vanished. Her eyes darted nervously around the table, taking in the uncomfortable stares of the wealthy guests. "I... I just made it," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

To Eleanor, rationality and patience were insults to her authority. She didn't want an explanation; she wanted absolute submission.