Hazel and Violet don’t even try to blend in, and I feel them before I really see them, a sharp tightening under my ribs that has been warning me all night whenever something threatens to fracture the fragile balance holding this evening together, and that sensation spikes hard enough that my shoulders tense on instinct. When I finally turn toward the entrance my stomach sinks, because they’re standing there like they belong, dressed too boldly and smiling too brightly, eyes already scanning the crowd for reactions they’re clearly hungry for, like this is a performance they’ve rehearsed.
They’re furious, and it isn’t subtle, because everything about their posture screams entitlement mixed with rage, as if the room itself owes them something.
This isn’t quiet resentment or wounded pride, i
