Ella
Vivien, nearly turned away, froze at my words.
She pivoted slowly, deliberately, as though every degree of movement had been rehearsed in front of a mirror. When her gaze locked onto mine, the warmth she’d been flaunting for the cameras evaporated entirely, replaced by something sharp, cold, and unmistakably hostile.
“What did you just say?” Vivien asked, her voice low and edged with menace.
I didn’t flinch.
I had long learned that bullies thrived on retreat—on the subtle bend of the spine, the avoidance of eye contact. I offered her neither.
“I asked why Hailee should carry your luggage,” I repeated evenly. “You have hands. Perfectly functional ones.”
For a split second, Vivien looked genuinely stunned. It wasn’t outrage that crossed her face first—it was disbelief. Disbelief
