The Matriarch's parlor was dim, dressed in shadows. Not because the lights weren't on, but because she preferred it that way. Soft, moody lighting that masked the fury always simmering just beneath her meticulously composed surface.
Tonight, it boiled over.
She sat, stiff-backed in her favorite green velvet chair, eyes cold and glassy like polished jade. The small tumbler of scotch in her hand trembled from the sheer force of her grip. Her immaculate, crimson nails bit into the crystal, leaving faint crescent marks.
Across from her, Betty stood stiffly, hands clenched at her sides, a palpable aura of dread emanating from her.
"…He refused," Betty said, almost in a whisper, her voice barely audible above the Matriarch's simmering rage. "He said… she would be moving in with him. That it was final."
A heavy silence descended, thick with unspoken consequence. Betty had dreaded passing this information to her in person; it had kept her wary and on edge all day, until this moment.