Jadwiga’s sneer was a physical assault. Danuta’s unique sense of empathy, usually a faint hum, now screamed with a symphony of panicked terror and blistering jealousy. It was a chaotic, sickening noise in her mind. She gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Tymon stepped in front of her, shielding her slightly, his shoulders tense. He held his sister's stare without flinching. “What are we plotting?” Tymon’s voice was calm, a stark contrast to the thrumming tension in the room. “We were just discussing the deplorable state of the family archives. Someone’s been rather careless with their digital records, wouldn’t you agree, Jaga?” Jadwiga’s eyes narrowed, flicking between Tymon and the open laptop screen, its glowing text a silent accusation. “Careless? Or perhaps digging where you don’t belong? This isn’t some dusty old accounting ledger, Tymon. This is dynasty business. Ewa's business.” Her voice dropped, a low, dangerous growl. “And you, Danka. I heard you’ve developed a sudden interest in things beyond your fashion magazines and charity luncheons.” Danuta pushed past Tymon, a flicker of her past self’s steel cutting through the fear. The memory of Jadwiga’s face on the surveillance files, her clandestine meetings with the rival firm, solidified into a weapon. “Some things are better kept quiet, Jadwiga,” Danuta said, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Especially late-night meetings outside the company’s official channels.” The red-lacquered nails tightened on the car keys, brass clinking against steel. Jadwiga’s face, usually a mask of haughty confidence, faltered. A fresh spike of fear, acrid and chemical, radiated from her, momentarily eclipsing the jealousy. It was the fear of exposure, cold and undeniable. “What are you implying?” Her voice was thin, losing its edge. “I’m implying nothing,” Danuta said, a subtle tilt to her head. “Only observing that the Gilded Perch has many eyes, even in the dark. Perhaps you should be more careful about who you invite to your private little garden parties.” Jadwiga’s jaw worked, her gaze darting to the laptop, then back to Danuta. The threat of Ewa's wrath, far more potent than any fear of Danuta, pressed down visibly. “You think you’re clever, Danuta? You think this… this new act… will fool Ewa? She has plans for you. Later, at the Varenne Gala. Just you wait.” She spun on her heel, the silk trench coat rustling, and stormed out, leaving the door gaping open, the vibrant light from the hall mocking the darkness within. Tymon closed the door, plunging them back into the relative gloom. He turned to Danuta, his hand gently touching her arm. “You were incredible. Where did that come from?” “I don’t know,” she admitted, the adrenaline making her tremble. “It felt… right. Like I knew what to say. Like I had an advantage.” She looked at the laptop, then at Tymon. “She’s terrified. Not of me, but of what her mother would do if she found out.” “Ewa would crush her,” Tymon stated, his expression flat. “Jadwiga is ruthless, but she’s always sought our matriarch's approval. This betrayal would destroy her standing.” He touched Danuta’s sleeve. “Jadwiga is right about one thing. Ewa has a display prepared for the reception. She always uses public events to stage an execution. Especially now, with the internal audit.” Danuta’s stomach churned. “What kind of example?” “Humiliation,” Tymon said, his gaze meeting hers, full of concern. “She’ll try to shame you, make you look foolish, out of place. She wants the world to see you as the gold-digger she perceives you to be.” *** The Grand Ballroom of the Volkov Palace was a glittering cage, its gilded ceilings and crystal chandeliers reflecting the cold ambition of Warsaw’s elite. Danuta, in a pristine white silk gown, felt every stare, every whispered judgment. The dress, chosen by Tymon with careful consideration, was meant to be a symbol of innocence, a stark contrast to the venomous atmosphere. Tymon, handsome in his tailored suit, stayed close, his presence a comforting anchor in the swirling sea of polished smiles and calculating eyes. Ewa Nowak, clad in obsidian velvet, commanded the room from the elevated stage where she was preparing to give her annual address for the ‘Children’s Solace Foundation’ benefit. Her voice, when it boomed over the hushed crowd, was a practiced melody of charity and power. Danuta’s empathy resonated with the false sincerity, a sour note in the grand symphony of the event. As Ewa descended the stage steps, her eyes, sharp and predatory, found Danuta across the room. A slow, chilling smile spread across her lips. “Ah, Danuta, my dear! You look radiant. So pure, so… untouched.” She approached, a glass of crimson wine in her hand, her movements deliberate, almost performative. “A beautiful white dress. So brave of you, my dear. I always found white so… unforgiving.” Danuta’s senses screamed. She could feel Ewa’s malicious intent like a physical heat, a dark, churning vortex beneath the polite words. Her kindness, her instinctive desire to believe the best, wrestled with the raw truth of Ewa’s intentions. Hesitation. A dangerous pause. Before Danuta could react, Ewa’s elbow “slipped.” Red wine, thick and viscous, cascaded down the front of Danuta’s white silk gown, blooming outwards like a grotesque, blood-red flower. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Ewa’s eyes, alight with cruel triumph, met Danuta’s. “Oh, my dear! How dreadfully clumsy of me! And on such a pristine gown. It seems some stains are simply impossible to avoid, aren’t they? Soiling something so utterly… delicate. Perhaps you’re not quite suited for such high society, after all. A simple girl, easily overwhelmed.” Danuta felt the humiliation burn, a scorching blush creeping up her neck. Murmurs erupted around them, thinly veiled snickers and pitying glances. Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to run, to disappear. Tymon moved, a growl rumbling in his chest, but Danuta caught his arm, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. This was Ewa’s game, and she had fallen right into it. Whirling away, Danuta pushed through the gawking crowd, the heavy silk dress clinging to her, a scarlet mark of shame. She sought refuge in a quiet alcove near the rear exit, her breath ragged. She pressed her back against the cool marble, trying to control the shaking of her hands. “Running away, little lark?” a sneering voice cut through the buzzing in her ears. Jadwiga emerged from the shadows, a predatory glint in her eyes. She stalked forward, shoving Danuta harder against the wall. The impact jarred her teeth. “Look at you. A pathetic, stained mess. Mother was right. You’re nothing but a cheap distraction. You think you can stand against us? You’re playing with fire, Danuta. And you’ll get burned. This household will devour you.” Jadwiga’s words were meant to break her, but Danuta’s empathy flared, cutting through the haze of shame. She felt it again: Jadwiga’s raw, gnawing ambition, her desperate need for Ewa’s approval, and beneath it all, the sharp, cold fear that Danuta might expose her. The surveillance photos, the rival company's logo, their bland, corporate motto — it all clicked into place. “Is that what they told you at the Sorbian Group?” Danuta asked, her voice quiet, almost a whisper, but it cut through Jadwiga’s bluster like a razor. “That ‘Prosperity is the Harvest of Discretion’? Is that why you meet with their senior strategists, Jadwiga? To harvest your own discretion?” Jadwiga froze. Her face, usually so composed, crumpled. The colour drained from her cheeks, leaving behind a stark, sickly pallor. Her eyelids pulled back in sudden horror as she stared at Danuta. The aggressive push faltered, her hand dropping from Danuta’s shoulder as if burned. The fear radiating from her was now an inferno, consuming everything else. It was the fear of Ewa, magnified a thousand times by the implied knowledge. Danuta pushed herself off the wall, leaving Jadwiga stunned and trembling. She looked down at the crimson stain on her dress, then back at Jadwiga, a cold, unwavering resolve settling deep within her. The shame was gone, replaced by something sharp and clear. This was not a defeat. This was a battle, and Ewa had just shown her the weapon. She walked back into the opulent ballroom, the red stain on her white gown a defiant banner. Ewa was on the stage again, her voice soaring over the crowd, halfway through a speech about the virtues of transparency and integrity. Danuta walked directly towards the stage, her head held high, ignoring the renewed gasps and whispers. Tymon, seeing the change in her, a quiet strength now emanating from her, offered a subtle, encouraging nod. Danuta reached the edge of the stage, her voice, clear and steady, cut through Ewa’s practiced eloquence. “Excuse me, Madame Nowak.” Ewa paused, her smile freezing as she saw Danuta, stained and unbowed, staring up at her. The ballroom went still, every gaze pinned to the stage steps. Ewa’s gaze narrowed, a flicker of pure rage in her eyes. “Danuta, dear, is something amiss?” “Not at all,” Danuta replied, her voice carrying across the hushed hall. She looked directly into Ewa’s cold eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. “I merely wanted to publicly thank you for a truly invaluable lesson tonight. You’ve shown me, with such… clarity, that some stains, no matter how much you try to cover them, are simply impossible to hide.” A stillness settled over the ballroom, heavy and suffocating. The air held the sharp weight of mutual threat. Ewa’s polished façade cracked for a split second, revealing pure venom. She took a half-step back, rings scraping against the wood of the podium, and locked onto Danuta with an unvarnished promise of retribution.

The Venom Gala