Nora pressed play on the recorder again. This time, the voices were different—a new file, recorded at a later date. It was Olivia and Reginald, and the conversation was more recent.
"The dinner tonight," Olivia said. "Make sure she gets the scraps. I want her to feel it. I want her to know that every comfort she has is because I allow it."
"Understood, Miss Olivia," Reginald replied.
Nora turned off the recorder. She had heard enough. They wanted a war of attrition. They wanted to wear her down with a thousand small cuts.
She wouldn't allow it. In the courts of the Renaissance, a public slight demanded a public retaliation. It wasn't about revenge; it was about establishing the hierarchy.
She saved this second recording to her phone as well, then returned the recorder to its drawer. She now had two separate pieces of evidence. She would use them strategically.
The next evening, Nora descended the grand staircase. She was dressed simply, her hair pulled back. She moved with a quiet purpose.
The dining room was empty. The table had been cleared. The family had eaten hours ago.
Reginald emerged from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray. He approached Nora with a bow that was anything but respectful.
"Miss Eleanora," he said, a sneer lurking beneath his polite tone. "The chef prepared something special for you."
He placed the tray on the table in front of her. Nora looked down at the plate. It held a few pieces of cold, gristly steak fat and a pile of wilted, brown-edged lettuce. It was literally garbage scraped from the kitchen prep station.
Nora didn't flinch. She looked up. Standing on the landing of the staircase was Olivia.
Olivia was dressed for a night out. She wore a stunning Valentino haute couture gown, a vibrant red that hugged her curves. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless.
She stood there, looking down at Nora with a smirk. She wanted to see the tears. She wanted to see the humiliation.
Nora stood up. She picked up the heavy porcelain plate in her right hand.
Reginald took a step back, expecting her to throw it at the wall, to scream, to cry.
Nora walked toward the staircase. She climbed the steps, one by one, her eyes locked on Olivia.
Olivia's smirk faltered. She took a step back. "What are you doing?"
Nora stopped two steps below her. She looked at Olivia's dress, then at the plate of slop in her hand.
"Such a special meal," Nora said softly. "It deserves an equally special audience."
Before Olivia could react, Nora moved. She flipped the plate forward, using a smooth, practiced motion.
The cold steak fat, the greasy sauce, and the wilted lettuce fell in a wet slap directly onto the bodice of Olivia's red Valentino gown.
The grease immediately soaked into the expensive silk, leaving a dark, oily stain. A piece of gristle slid slowly down the fabric.
For a second, there was absolute silence.
Reginald gasped, his hand flying to his mouth.
Olivia looked down at her ruined dress. Her face went from shock to disbelief, and then contorted into a mask of pure rage.
"Ahhh!" she screamed, a high-pitched, piercing sound that echoed through the house. "My dress! You crazy bitch!"
She clawed at the food, only smearing the grease further into the fabric.
The scream brought the house running.
Edward burst out of his study, his face dark. Catherine rushed in from the living room, a magazine still in her hand.
They stopped, staring at the scene. Olivia, standing on the stairs, covered in food, sobbing hysterically. Nora, standing a step below, holding an empty plate, her face completely calm.
Catherine rushed to Olivia, grabbing her arms. "Olivia! Oh my god, your dress!"
Edward turned his fury on Nora. "Eleanora! What is the meaning of this?"
Nora looked at him, her expression blank. "It was time for dinner, Father."
