Before Eleanor could formulate a single excuse, David swung his right hand. The slap was deafening, a sharp, violent crack that echoed off the mahogany walls. The sheer force of the strike snapped Eleanor’s head to the side. She stumbled backward, her hand flying to her cheek in utter shock, her perfect updo unraveling as a lock of blonde hair fell across her face.

Margaret, terrified by the escalating violence, tugged frantically at her son’s suit jacket. "I'm fine," she pleaded, her voice cracking with suppressed sobs. "I'll go make another dish."

But Eleanor, blinded by her own bruised ego and incapable of feeling remorse, straightened her posture. Her cheek was bright red, but her arrogance remained intact. She glared at David, gesturing wildly to the extravagant room around them. "This is my house!" she shrieked, desperate to reclaim her shattered authority. "I can do whatever I want!"