The heavy oak doors clicked shut, sealing the room in a silence that felt less like peace and more like the vacuum after an explosion.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Arthur was slumped in his chair, staring at the wall with the glass-eyed look of a man in shock.
The white silk handkerchief still lay on the mahogany table, a glaring, silent testament to what had just occurred. Cassandra stared at it, her chest heaving, her skin burning with a phantom heat where Jonathan had wiped her away like filth.
CRACK.
Reginald's palms slammed onto the mahogany with a violence that made the crystal decanters shriek.
"What the hell was that?!"
Reginald stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. His face, previously gray with terror, was now flushed with a patchy, ugly crimson.
He pointed a shaking finger at her.
"Have you lost your mind, woman? You threw yourself at him! Like a... like a common whore!"
