The sting of the slap radiated across Eleanor’s cheek, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the crushing weight of public humiliation. She clutched her face, tears silently spilling over her trembling fingers as she backed away. But Victoria was not satisfied. The cruel, calculating woman in the red dress thrived on absolute submission, and she intended to make an example of the fragile woman standing before her.

Victoria extended her arm, pointing a perfectly manicured finger directly downward at the puddle of thick orange juice pooling on the white marble floor. Her eyes were devoid of any human empathy, shining instead with a sadistic thrill.

"An accident? Then get on your knees and apologize properly," Victoria commanded, her voice ringing out with venomous authority.

The surrounding guests—the supposedly refined elite—did nothing to intervene. Instead, a wave of mocking smiles and quiet scoffs rippled through the crowd. They watched the spectacle like a theatrical performance, entirely complicit in the cruelty. Eleanor, utterly broken by the hostility of the room and desperate to end the horrific scene, closed her tear-filled eyes. Her shoulders slumped in total defeat. Slowly, agonizingly, her trembling knees began to buckle, lowering her fragile frame toward the cold, sticky floor.