Nora Hart glanced down at her hand, which was struck and now bore a crimson mark, sticky with damp red wine.
"Oops, I thought I hit someone. Turns out it's Miss Hart, my apologies."
It was common knowledge throughout Capital Port that Matthew Holt held a grudge against Nora Hart.
The people around, already abuzz with chatter, perked up even more at the sound of Matthew Holt's voice and eagerly leaned in with their ears pricked and drinks in hand.
"So Miss Hart can still show up at these kinds of events this year."
Nora Hart scoffed and withdrew her hand nonchalantly, proud as a peacock in a meadow, her fingertips lightly brushing the wine stain on her hand: "If dogs can come, why can't I?"
"Who are you calling a dog?"
Nora Hart curled her lips into a smirk, her gaze landing lightly and dismissively on Matthew Holt, "I don't know, whoever responds must be the one."