The dining table, which should have been a minimally civilized space for socializing, was filled with an atmosphere so dense it was almost palpable. The contrast was almost comical: neatly arranged plates, impeccably aligned silverware, breakfast meticulously prepared by Serafall—and yet, three gazes laden with silent resentment that made every second there too awkward to ignore.
Carmilla sat with impeccable posture, but the way her fingers drummed lightly on the table betrayed her contained irritation. Her eyes, normally confident and almost amused, now carried a colder intensity, occasionally turning to Victor with an expression that mixed judgment and disbelief. Scarlett, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide her own discomfort; she leaned back in her chair in a way that was too relaxed for someone at a formal dinner, her arms crossed and her eyes half-closed, clearly still irritated—and perhaps a little humiliated, though she would never admit it aloud.
