Aria slammed her fist against the polished desk, her knuckles stinging, but she didn't care. Her nails scratched against the wood as she hissed through her teeth.
"Laura," she spat the name like poison, "is impossibly stupid. That useless little rat should have been strangled at birth. I swear, I should send her to prison and let her rot there until her hair turns white."
Her voice trembled with rage, every syllable dripping venom. She paced back and forth, her crimson dress brushing against her legs, the sound of her heels sharp against the marble floor.
Her golden hair fell over her shoulders, wild and unkempt after a night of fury.
The elegant updo she'd worn to the council meeting had long since collapsed, hairpins scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers.
The room around them bore witness to her rage—papers strewn across expensive Persian rugs, a crystal decanter overturned on the side table, its amber contents seeping into the white cloth beneath.
