The Revenge of One Humiliated
The principle of cold, calculated vengeance, served on a silver platter.
My hands do not tremble as I apply the makeup. They are steady, surgical. The lipstick is the only color, a gash of vivid blood on the marble of my face. The chignon is so tight it pulls at the skin on my temples, a sharp and familiar pain, a reminder that I am here, present, in this body that was once their target.
Martha enters, and her sharp intake of breath is my first victory of the evening.
"Élianor… You look like…"