Sloan Whitfield, dressed in an exquisite designer gown that shimmered with every step she took, was the center of attention. Her laughter rang like silver bells, echoing off the marble floors. She reveled in the admiration and envy of those around her, fully aware of the power her beauty and wealth afforded her. As the evening progressed, her eyes fell upon Martha, who was busy arranging glasses on a nearby table.

“Excuse me,” Sloan called out, the sweetness of her voice laced with an edge of disdain. “I believe you’ve missed a spot over there,” she said, pointing to an imagined imperfection on the glimmering surface. The guests paused, their conversations dwindling to hushed whispers as Sloan’s words cut through the room like a knife.