You watch her eyes drag across the first line like they’re walking into a trap they didn’t see.
The fan in her hand stops mid-flick, frozen open like a black wing.
Her lipstick smile cracks at one corner, then disappears completely.
For the first time all afternoon, Patricia looks small, and it hits the room like a dropped glass.
She tries to laugh, but the sound comes out thin.
“This is… this is a joke,” she says, looking around for backup.
No one laughs with her this time.
Because paper doesn’t care about charm.
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