Luna shrugged, gesturing vaguely with her fingers as if Seliora's entire existence was an unfortunate background noise. "I mean, the screaming, the entitlement, the rod up your ass—it's just… a lot for an early morning. Perhaps you should lie down."
"How dare you!" Seliora hissed.
Luna tilted her head, her voice honeyed and lethal. "Dear, you're barely the concubine. You're an accessory. If you want to be respected, you might try acting like you were raised around actual nobility and not in a treehouse made of spite."
"I'll report this," she snapped.
"Do," Luna said brightly, leaning back as the pedicurist resumed work on her toes.
The attendant shuffled toward Luna. Her steps were small. Her hands were nervously clasped before her, voice quivering as she said, "Princess… I—I'm afraid you must leave."
The pampered serenity of the salon vanished in an instant. "Why," she asked, "do I have to leave?"
