"Is it made with real fruit juice? There's this peculiar, artificial aftertaste lingering on my palate. It reminds me of something... ah yes, almost as synthetic as certain pedigrees circulating in this room."
A social landmine had detonated amid the carefully orchestrated dance of etiquette. Julian's entire entourage fell into stunned silence, their smiles freezing in place. Every head within earshot swiveled to stare at me - the insignificant nobody standing by the punchbowl who had the audacity to speak so boldly out of turn. Julian's handsome, aristocratic face flushed an ugly shade of crimson, the color spreading from his neck upward like rising mercury.
The waiter, caught in the crossfire between professional obligation and self-preservation, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. His eyes darted nervously between me and Julian's group, clearly calculating the potential fallout of this interaction on his employment prospects.
