Chapter 7 - The Cold Floor of Reality
A collective, shuddering breath left the audience. The woman in the red dress dropped her hand from her mouth, her expression morphing from shock to pure, unadulterated disgust. The bearded man set his champagne glass down on a passing waiter's tray, violently shaking his head.
On the floor, Eleanor groaned. The cool marble beneath her and the sudden shift in the room's lighting roused her. Her eyelids fluttered open. For a fraction of a second, she was disoriented. Then, she saw the harsh glare of the projector screen illuminating the faces of her peers. She saw her own face, fifty feet tall, caught in the act of a felony.
Eleanor’s eyes went wide. Her mouth fell completely agape in a portrait of pure, suffocating horror. She tried to scramble backward, her expensive gray velvet gown tangling around her legs, but there was nowhere to hide. Her grand scheme, her impeccable reputation, her lifelong legacy—all of it had been incinerated in a matter of seconds.
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The camera—and the crowd—cut their attention back to Maya.
The young girl looked down at the ruined matriarch. For the first time all evening, Maya’s stoic expression shifted. A subtle, incredibly satisfied smirk graced her features, pulling at her dimples. She had won. And she hadn't even raised her voice.
