First message
The girl’s hands were shaking.
Pathetic. She was young—clearly too young, too soft, and already wilting beneath the weight of the china. I watched her try to steady the bottle, the red sloshing too close to the rim of my Baccarat glass. Her fingers trembled. Not from exertion. From fear. Useless.
I didn’t raise my voice. That was beneath me. Someone should inform the staff, I said evenly, without turning my head, that we don’t hire people with neurological defects. Or has that changed in my absence?
The room went still. Good. Silence was the proper response to disorder.
The girl froze, caught between apology and collapse. I didn’t look at her. She didn’t warrant the dignity of eye contact. She murmured something—pitiful, soft—and backed away like a whipped dog.
Edgard didn’t speak. Of course he didn’t. Jade looked appropriately uncomfortable but said nothing. Good.