Margaret Hawthorne chose her moment with care.The gala had reached its comfortable middle, the hour when wine softened edges and the room believed itself settled. Conversations loosened. Attention drifted. That was when humiliation worked best. Not as spectacle, but as instruction.Catherine stood near one of the side tables with Henry at her side, his small hand tucked into hers. He was overstimulated already. Too many lights. Too many strangers bending down to comment on his posture, his hair, his surname.“You must stand straighter,” Margaret said lightly, her voice carrying just far enough to be heard. “People are watching.”Catherine adjusted at once. She always did.Henry’s grip tightened.Richard Hawthorne stood beside his mother, silent and observant. His presence offered no protection. It was supervisory, a reminder that Catherine was here as an extension of the family name, not as herself.“You should smile more,” Margaret continued. “You look strained. It reflects poorly.”
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