George stared at the painting, its colors muted under the dim glow of the gallery lights. His fingers traced the rim of his glass absently before he finally exhaled and spoke, his voice edged with a quiet bitterness.
"How will the world ever see them when we are slaves here?" His words hung between them, sharp, unfiltered.
Queen Jasmine's grin was almost knowing, as if she had expected this moment—perhaps even prepared for it. She let the silence settle before answering, her tone light, almost teasing.
"Alright, forget about that. Let's enjoy this moment."
Without another word, George lifted his glass and swigged the entire contents in one swift motion. The burn was instant, sharp, a fire down his throat—just what he needed.
Brenda's eyes widened, her hand hovering over her own drink. "Wow, where did that come from?" she exclaimed, the shock laced with intrigue.
