Well.
This is bad.
I stood frozen on the balcony, wine dripping down my dress, hand still raised, while Arabella sobbed dramatically on the floor below.
The entire ballroom had gone silent. Even the orchestra had stopped mid-note, leaving only the sound of Arabella's theatrical crying echoing through the chamber.
Guards were already moving toward the stairs. Nobles whispered behind gloved hands, their expressions ranging from scandalized to gleeful. This was the kind of gossip that would fuel drawing rooms for months.
And Arabella, that absolute genius of a manipulator, was still on the ground, hand pressed to her "injured" cheek, tears streaming down her face like she was auditioning for a tragic opera.
"How could you?!" she wailed, looking up at me with wounded eyes. "I only wanted to welcome you! To be a good sister!"
Oh, you are GOOD. I'll give you that.
"I didn't touch you," I said, my voice shaking. "I didn't—"
"LIAR!"
