Cassandra had seen only disrespect.
Before Ava could speak, Cassandra yanked the aluminum clipboard from her hands, the force enough to twist Ava’s injured knee. Then, with both palms pressed flat against Ava’s chest, Cassandra shoved.
Hard.
Now the corridor was silent except for Cassandra’s breathing and the slow drip of blood from Ava’s scraped knuckles onto the floor.
“You people are unbelievable,” Cassandra spat, glaring down at her. “Do you have any idea who I am? This wing exists because of families like mine. And you—” she gestured with disgust at Ava’s navy scrubs, “—you walk around like you own the place. Servants should know their space.”
The word lingered, poisonous and intentional.
Ava stayed on the floor longer than she needed to. She felt the old switch flip inside her, the one that activated when fear would only get people killed. Her pulse slowed. Her thoughts sharpened.
She looked at Cassandra’s arm. No bruise. No injury.
Then she looked at her own hand, blood slick and dark against her skin.
“You pushed me,” Ava said evenly.
