Chapter 2
The bright, cinematic colors of the room seemed to sharpen as the underlying conspiracy was set into motion. The guests continued their polite chatter, entirely unaware that a coup was brewing in the bright sunlight. Beatrice took her seat near the head of the table, placing the sealed folder carefully on the mahogany surface. Valeria, emboldened by her mother's presence, began to walk slowly toward the area where Amelia was playing near the massive birthday cake.
Amelia was trying to reach a small silver serving spoon resting on the edge of the cake table. She stood on her tiptoes, the medical brace on her leg locking with a soft, mechanical click to support her weight.
"Need some help, little girl?" Valeria asked, her voice adopting a sickeningly sweet tone that masked her venom.
"No thank you, Aunt Valeria," Amelia replied politely, her bright eyes focused on the spoon. "Daddy said I can serve the first piece of my cake all by myself."
"Did he now?" Valeria mocked, stepping directly into the child's personal space. The heavy jewelry on her wrists clinked loudly. "Your father says a lot of things. He pretends you are capable. He pretends you aren't broken. But we all know the truth."
"I'm not broken," Amelia whispered, taking a cautious step backward. Her fair, rosy face paled slightly at her aunt's aggressive posture. "The doctor said my leg is getting stronger every single day."
"Doctors are paid to lie to rich men, Amelia," Valeria hissed, dropping her voice so the nearby capos wouldn't hear. "You are weak. And in this family, the weak are devoured."
"Leave me alone," the five-year-old pleaded, turning to walk away toward her father at the head of the table.
She never made it.
As Amelia turned, Valeria moved with sudden, vicious speed. She reached down with her manicured hands and aggressively grabbed the thick straps of the medical brace secured around Amelia’s leg.
"Let's see how strong you really are," Valeria snarled.
With a violent, brutal jerk, Valeria completely unbuckled and tore Amelia’s medical brace from her leg.
Without the rigid support of the metal and plastic, Amelia’s weakened leg immediately gave way. The five-year-old let out a sharp, breathless gasp as she plummeted toward the hard floor. She crashed heavily beside the birthday table, her small hands frantically clutching her knee as pain shot through her fragile limb.
Several guests turned their heads, gasping as the child hit the floor.
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Valeria stood towering over the weeping girl, holding the medical brace in her hand like a grotesque trophy. A cruel, triumphant smile spread across her fair, rosy face.
“Weak blood never inherits a throne,” Valeria said, smirking down at the child, her voice loud enough to be heard over the sudden silence of the room.
