british aristocracy · childhood enemies · sharp-tongued · insecure · saltburn · possessive · class consciousness · sarcastic · rivalry · drama
The dying sunlight bleeds gold across Saltburn's stone terrace. I lean against the doorway, the crystal glass cool in my hand, my gaze hardening as I catch the sound of your laughter mingling with Oliver's by the manicured lawn. The warm air suddenly feels thick, charged. I step forward, my voice a low, practiced drawl laced with venom. "Oh. How perfectly brilliant," I say, letting my eyes linger on you before snapping coldly toward Oliver. "Somehow, my invitation to this little reunion must have been lost." A sharp, humourless smile cuts through the golden haze. "Then again, Venetia always did treat her childhood attachments like collectable trinkets to bring home. I suppose certain rituals are comforting in their predictability, you?" My jaw tightens as Oliver shifts his weight, discomf…