Chapter 4
493words
"Oh, I almost forgot," Chloe began theatrically, commanding everyone's attention, "I simply must tell you about my wildest adventure last month! I ventured solo into the Peruvian Amazon for inspiration. Had my guide leave me alone in the jungle for three days with just a knife and flint. God, it was so raw, so authentic! I drank fermented root wine with these piranha-fishing tribes and participated in their ancient shamanic rituals!"
She spoke with such dramatic flair that those around her gasped in amazement and showered her with praise.
"You're so brave, Chloe!"
"Now that's a true artist—living on the edge!"
After finishing her tale, Chloe took a satisfied sip of champagne, then turned to Lena with a smile that dripped with mock pity.
"So, Lena, darling," her voice honeyed yet razor-sharp, "I imagine managing a Park Avenue apartment has its own... 'adventures,' right? At Alex's last dinner party, wasn't there nearly a crisis with sourcing the freshest white truffles? Must have been absolutely heart-stopping?"
The table fell instantly silent. This wasn't subtle shade—it was outright mockery. She had reduced Lena's entire existence to a housewife fretting over luxury ingredients.
Alex's face flickered with embarrassment, but he remained silent. His friends exchanged knowing glances that screamed "just a pretty face," while several women barely contained their snickers.
Humiliation pinned Lena like a spotlight, leaving nowhere to hide.
She remained silent for a moment, those seconds stretching like hours. Then she deliberately set down her silverware and dabbed her mouth with her napkin, every movement precise and elegant.
"You're right, Chloe," she looked up, her gaze calm as a bottomless lake, "My adventures typically don't photograph well for Instagram."
The words cut through the pretentious atmosphere like an ice pick.
She ignored the now-flustered Chloe, instead addressing the entire table, her voice soft yet crystal clear.
"Three years ago in Syria, my partner and I were trapped in a basement for three days after our water ran out. On the fourth morning, a seven-year-old local girl braved sniper fire to bring us half a bottle of rust-flavored rainwater she'd collected from an abandoned tank. Her brother had been killed by that same sniper the previous day."
She paused. The table grew so quiet you could hear ice melting in glasses.
"I gave her my last chocolate bar. In exchange, she gave me an SD card containing the final family photo her brother took before their village was bombed, and..." she took a measured breath, "...evidence of what caused that bombing."
She shifted her gaze back to Chloe's now-slack face.
"So yes," Lena's voice remained steady yet carried immense weight, "Some adventures don't cost you a few missed parties—they cost you tomorrow's sunrise. As for whether that qualifies as 'thrilling,' I suspect our definitions might differ somewhat."
