Liying

Clara stumbled through the grand doors of her home, her face flushed and tear-streaked from the humiliation of the evening. The ballroom spectacle played on a loop in her mind: Nicholas's cold dismissal, his unwavering attention on Selena, and the sea of judgmental eyes that had watched her fall apart.

As she entered, her father was waiting for her in the grand sitting room, seated in his high-backed chair near the fireplace. His sharp eyes fixed on her the moment she appeared, scrutinizing her appearance as though every wrinkle in her dress and every tear-streak on her cheek were a personal affront.

"Did Nicholas reply to any of your letters?" he asked, his tone clipped and cold.