The worst prompt yet this year.
Walking into the charity event is like stepping into my past.
My face is still well-known; people recognize me despite sunglasses. They mutter, unflattering and downright offensive, releasing years’ worth of accumulated spite.
I know what they’re saying.
Disgraced. Disinherited. Shame on the family’s name.
And there’s my Father, sitting on his metaphorical Tycoon Throne, looking down on his subjects. My Mother speaks to the caterers, a demure and elegant Queen of Engineering.
Look, my little sister. The perfect, beautiful princess I never could have been.
I touch the skull motif on my glove and get ready to raise Hell.
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