[cosmicretreat]

[gracecapell]

Gigi's question hung in the air, bitter and heavy with the weight of memory. Grace's own sundae sat half-eaten between them, melting slowly as the silence stretched. “I -- I don’t know… I’ve never really… thought about it. Not, you know, seriously,” she began, twisting the spoon in her glass, chocolate clinging stubbornly. She glanced up, caught Gigi's eyes, then looked away, chewing on the words. “But… maybe there was one thing. I was… I was ready to perform the lead in the Doe Queen. Every detail, every… every movement rehearsed. Every pas, adagio, and pirouette memorised.” She swallowed, voice tightening. “And then…” A pause, fragile, like a stage curtain trembling before it falls. “An accident...

...My first. Not just a life, but something that… I don’t know… it felt like it fed off me. My energy, my strength... a parasite."

What was she doing? This was supposed to be about regret, missed opportunity, and the ballet. And yet… why was she letting herself say this, and with chocolate still clinging to her lips? She hated therapy, hated all the forced words and neat confessions, and yet somehow this -- this was easy. Too easy. She remembered a time when it had been like that before, when brunette hair had tangled with her own, a sister… or close enough to call one. Her spoon wavered. She looked away.

“And yet… when he was born, there was this -- just a fracture of a moment -- where it felt like the three of us, together, were… our entire world. Just for an instant, everything aligned, and I could see it -- him, Emilio, me -- all of it, all of us, like we belonged nowhere else but there.”

She swallowed, the sweetness of the sundae forgotten. “After the hospital, though… I became stone. Hard. Determined to get a nanny, to make it all… manageable. But the nights,” she whispered, “the nights I found myself sneaking back into that room… not just to make sure that all that time he’d taken from me somehow gave him enough strength to get through, but to see him, to feel him there. To remember that fracture again, that tiny world we’d held together, even if only for a moment.

And as the years went on… the hardness I carried toward him… it didn’t quite soften. But it shifted. Something else replaced it. Something that made me ache for his footsteps in the hall, his breath brushing against my neck when he buried his tiny body against me, his voice entwined with mine as we hummed the songs of the ancients..."

“And then… Emilio,” she murmured, voice faltering, tasting the name like it might break her. “He… he was just gone. A car accident. Just -- ripped through everything. Me, us… all of it. And it left this… this space between me and… what I’d come to feel for Teo over the years. I don’t know if it’s grief, or shock, or… everything together, all tangled up. But it changed me. Not just harder -- something else, something uneven, jagged. I carry it like a weight I don’t know how to set down. And sometimes I wonder if I even want to.”

Her voice dropped, low and trembling. “And… and afterwards… willingness became obligation, and obligation became resentment, and resentment… it became neglect, and neglect became… abandonment. And before I even knew it, that world I’d held onto… it was gone. All that was left was a ballet I never got to perform, and a ghost that refused to let me forget him.”

She shivered slightly, a tear sliding free before she hastily wiped it away. “Hertia on that hill,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Unable to move. Unable to feel anything but the past. His ghost… chaining her there, whispering, reminding…”

A laugh, small and uneven, escaped her. She wiped at the corners of her eyes. “That opera… it always makes me cry,” she said, a weak excuse, more for herself than Giulia. Then, after a pause, she leaned a little forward, “and you… what do you regret?”

Even as the words left her mouth, a strange clarity settled over her. She hadn’t really said it before -- not aloud -- but now… she realised she did. She did, in fact, regret it.

[dbmatriarch]

When Grace refers to an accident, Georgia thinks the woman is about to tell her about some car crash, some injury that put a premature end to the life of a ballerina. Already, the career is plucking a distant chord in Georgia's memory, although she's still trying to put it together as the blonde continues speaking.

But then she realizes the accident she's referring to, the parasite, is a child. It seems a cruel label for a baby, who has no choice in its birth, and she begins to wonder whether she's misjudged the intriguing woman across from her or been taken in too quickly by her worldly charm. Angelica and Nora are not her own children, and yet she loves them just the same; would give up any career in a heartbeat for them if it was required of her.

Does not every parent feel that way?...

Yet when the name Emiliano enters the conversation, Georgia realizes with a start who it is they're talking about, and why Grace looks so familiar. She wasn't just any ballerina with a dream — she was a prima ballerina who'd been famously linked to a Del Bosque; Giulia's twin, Rafael's brother, the one who had died tragically young.

"Yes, I remember now... I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what it'd be like to lose a husband so abruptly. Georgia shakes her head in sympathy. "And with a young child in tow, too."

Tragic for his family, anyway. Privately, Georgia isn't convinced that it'd be better for the island if he were still alive, she hasn't met a worthwhile exception among the Del Bosques yet, except perhaps the youngest daughter, who's involved herself in charity work increasingly over the years. How much of that is genuine and not just an attempt to curry favour on her family's behalf — Georgia doesn't know.

"This was... It must have been at least a decade ago or two, right? You'll have to forgive me, time passes by so fast, but I do remember the media coverage around it."

She hesitates for a beat, searching Grace's glassy eyes before forging ahead.

"I remember it wasn't always kind to you." It may sound strange, coming from a media mogul, but a truth received is owed a truth in turn. It is as much an exchange as it is a way to prompt Grace's own view of herself. Was she what the world had seen; selfish, spiraling, callously irresponsible? Or does she see herself as something else entirely?...

'And you… what do you regret?'

Georgia opens her mouth to answer but then hesitates. She closes it, smiles, and reaches for Grace's hand instead. "I'll tell you, but first, thank you for sharing that. I won't pretend to know what your grief feels like, but I know I wouldn't wish it on my enemy, even. And given my married name – given yours, a lifetime ago – I hope that you can believe me when I say it." She can still see the tear track on the woman's face.

She wonders if there's ever been another time that a Del Bosque, even just by former association, and a Du Bois have shared such vulnerable truths together. She wonders how different things would be, if it were always like this.

[dbmatriarch]

LOCATION — Mama Pia’s Kitchen, La Paloma. DATE — Late August. STARTER — Closed for @directart

The location's no accident.

No haphazard choice, no careless dart flung to a map. Mama Pia's Kitchen is the exact sort of restaurant that won't survive the Heritage Chancellor's intended cull if the Del Bosque adjacent government steamrolls ahead with it.

Still, she hadn't expected Luciana would show. She pushes her hip off the doorframe as the sleek, expensive-looking car rolls to a stop in front of the restaurant. "Sara?..." She turns her head so that her voice carries over one shoulder, eyes not leaving the scene in front of her even for a second. "She's here." Her heart begins to thud a little faster, a phantom ache as she watches Luciana's chauffeur exit the car to let her out.

It takes Luciana several seconds to finally look up. As if everything else, everyone else, is an afterthought to her meticulous process. A thin smile stretches Georgia's mouth as she watches the blonde's gaze sweep first over her (what does a Del Bosque see?) and then over the humble eatery that has clearly seen better days.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Del Bosque, and don't worry... We have the place to ourselves."

[silasmasse]

Silas has never found Georgia lacking—and certainly not now. That is to say, it isn't her appearance that tips him off. Its the hesitance that causes his ready grin to falter, a brow to lift in question. "The man knows how to work a room, I'll give him that." His old friend might play the ringmaster well, but when the tent is crawling with snakes? Suffice to say, Silas been uneasy since Dom first told him about this whole shindig.

As tends to be the case when a Du Bois enters, Silas' attention is undivided. Break time. He doles out a second generous pour. "Ha." Pointedly flat. "They wouldn't know what to do with me."

He leans an elbow on the bar, reading past the wry edge of her smile. Georgia has always known how to spin a line, right now he's just trying to figure out the angle. "Snubbing Luciana Del Bosque and questioning her taste all in one evening? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get this place shut down." As evidenced by the buoyancy in his tone, he is in fact unaware of how narrowly he's avoided that very distinct possibility.

[dbmatriarch]

"No," She smiles her concurrence. "I don't think they would."

Sitting at the bar across from Silas, cocooned from the madness that waits outside his door, Georgia wishes she could freeze time. Not too long – wouldn't bear to be parted from the family – but enough to get over the fresh bitterness that's been planted in her heart by the new Cultural Preservation Act, and the cowardly forces behind it.

"I've never felt that woman had much taste, but then, there's a reason she's sitting on a throne in the world of art and I'm, well," She cants her head to the side, glancing down at her seat. "... Sitting on a barstool." Her glass finds his in a fond, unspoken toast.

"A very nice barstool, for the record."

It's the last she's willing to say about Luciana or any other Del Bosque for the evening. They've already waged an airstrike on her heart — she won't let the same happen to Silas, even if she can only spare him for a night. Maybe less, if new customers pour into his bar later this evening, loose lipped and ready to spill the breaking news.

"Now, now... Before I'm accused of darkening anyone's door, tell me something happy, old friend." Georgia brings the drink to her mouth, savouring the warm burn of alcohol.

"Tell me your favourite memory of this place."

[honeysnared]

she listens patiently as her aunt speaks as she always has. the conviction behind georgia's words is something tatiana has long admired. it's one of the many reasons people chose to listen and to follow her. whether that belief of tati's was born out of keen observation, mutual respect or that faint sense of familiar love, as far as tatiana deemed herself capable of the latter, was anyone's guess. "i won't pretend not to see your point or to share your frustrations," she starts out, her gaze lingering on her aunt rather than the envelope tossed between them, "but this isn't about aligning ourselves with the del bosque agenda. it's about perception. you know just as well as i do that public sway is a powerful tool, one we've learned to wield to our advantage more often than not. if we leave room for doubt, if we leave enough cracks for del bosque media to question our unity, we are giving them breathing room they don't deserve."

[dbmatriarch]

'Public sway is a powerful tool.'

Georgia nods, more to herself than to Tatiana. "Well said." In moments like these, it hits her how quickly the intelligent, sharp-eyed girl has grown into a persuasive woman.

"... But you forget one thing; perception depends almost entirely on the lens of the observer." Just like that, a latent ire resurfaces towards the families in question.

"You argue that the public perception of us united at this event will be a positive thing, a show of strength. Another observer could just as easily argue that the perception of us attending this mockery would only throw us in the same camp as those we criticize."

She throws her niece a pensive look. "Who's to say who is right, Tatiana?"

[gracecapell]

Grace let out a low laugh, the kind that escaped before she could smooth it over. “You make it sound so wonderfully simple,” she murmured, eyes drifting past the ballroom as though weighing which truth to set free. Her hand grazed the rim of her glass, buying time, until she finally looked back at Georgia with something gentler. “I’d like to spend a day without rehearsing my own mistakes. To stop carrying conversations I never had to their bitter ends. And perhaps -- if I’m allowed to be foolish -- to remember what it feels like to want something without immediately apologising for it.” Her mouth curved, half rueful, half amused. “Though… banana cream pie does sound much easier.”

The thought settled quietly, like a coin at the bottom of a fountain. She knew the catering staff here -- half the island had worked with them at one point or another -- and slipping into the kitchen would be no trouble at all. No banana cream pie on offer, no surprise there, but she could improvise. A good banana sundae -- yes, she still remembered the motions: splitting the fruit just so, a drizzle of chocolate, a scoop of ice cream, the sinful addition of canned cream (only ever acceptable in this instance). Her fingers twitched as though already at work, and before she knew it her mind had drifted... back to Theo, to nights when he padded in bleary-eyed after a nightmare.

She’d make one for him, and as she pressed the nozzle to the sundae, the cream would sputter rebelliously, bouncing off his nose, then hers. His laugh -- bright, unguarded -- would tumble out, filling the kitchen like sunlight. Grace’s hand brushed at her nose now, unconsciously wiping away something that wasn’t there. She blinked, remembering she wasn’t alone, the sundae finished and set down before her as though the years hadn’t slipped away. “Well,” she said softly, pushing it across the counter, “it isn’t pie. But it’s better than nothing.”

[dbmatriarch]

To Georgia, truth is like a swimming pool, allowing her to swim to different depths with different people. Everything she says to Grace is true, but while she's treading shallow water, Grace answers the same question with an elegant dive right into the deep end.

When people above a certain class in Coronado mention mistakes, they are not often referring to their own. It catches Georgia's attention immediately; she has to keep from looking too intrigued as she searches the strange woman's face for elaboration. It's like a grape dangled on a vine, just out of reach. It's that same feeling of wanting to know more that has her following the blonde out several minutes later, gladly accepting an offer to check out the restaurant adjoining the art gallery.

//

"Well, that's undoubtedly the best banana split I've had in Coronado..." The spontaneity of the evening might have something to do with it. "A woman after my own heart." Gigi adds, setting her spoon down with a smile. There's a mix of gratitude and amusement playing in her features. It's been too long since she's done anything off-script, all the more so with a stranger, but here they are... She and the magnetic Miss Capell. Just two middle-aged women enjoying a stolen dessert in a quiet restaurant.

But what she's really here for, what's better than ice cream and pie, is a second helping of truth. So she circles back to the topic that hooked her to begin with, leaning forward against the table with her digestivo between her hands. "If you had the power to undo a mistake in your life – only one – which would you choose?" Her tongue is sweetened by the banana split and loosened by the alcohol. She gazes intently at her companion.

"I know I'm being bold... But tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."

[brxndished]

Status: Closed - Du Bois Family @glittergab @dbmatriarch @kassajin-d @websweavings @honeysnared @salemduboiss Location: Dominic + Georgia's Dining Room

"I'm so, so sorry I'm late," Eleanora said as she slipped into her chair at the dining table, immediately turning to give her mother an apologetic grin. "I had some business to deal with in the Mill and got caught in traffic on the way back. You didn't have to wait for me to start eating. Have I missed anything?" @dbmatriarch

[dbmatriarch]

The Mill?... Given everything that's gone down in the last few days, she wants to ask, but it isn't for right now. No personal agenda matters more than the one at hand; the collective action their family must take if they're to push back on the farce that is the Cultural Preservation Act. "Let's all recite our Gratitudes, then." A tradition rooted in the faith passed down from her father's side of the family, and his father before him.

Georgia doesn't care what her children choose to believe privately, but here, at her table, they'll remember to say thanks for all that has come their way; from what has been in their power, to all that has been beyond it. Beyond the sun, moon, and stars.

When their hands unclasp, they're permitted to dig into piles and piles of delectable seafood; comfort staples to make up for the discomfort of the present conversation.

"You haven't missed much. We need several strategies to fight back, to make sure the Act doesn't go down easy. Protests, opinion pieces in our magazines, interviews with affected parties in our news outlets, extensive coverage of that poor Miller's kangaroo court trial... Everything and anything you can all think of." Her food is untouched, her index tracing fretful rings around a glass of lemon water. "What else are we missing?"

[kdramamilfs]

Thandiwe Newton as Dr. Rachael Fairburn Wednesday season 2

[dbmatriarch]

LOCATION —Barry's Gym. DATE — Late August STARTER — Closed for @thcusandcuts

"It'd be good to let off some steam," Sasha had argued earlier that week over drinks, not-so-coincidentally timed shortly after a particularly heated rant from Yours Truly. "You need some way to let out all that stress, or eventually it'll impact your work."

One look at the personal trainer under whom she'd unknowingly signed her name, and, beyond shadow of a doubt — consider her stressed.

"Nuh-uh." There's a vigorous shake of her head as she hisses low under her breath. "You want me to-... To go toe-to-toe with that?? I said I needed a punching bag, Sasha, not a brick wall. Did I tell you my nana had osteoporosis? I've heard it's genetic." Gigi adjusts the gym bag over her shoulder, ready to shimmy towards the exit.

[gracecapell]

“Ms. Capell,” she says, her tone even but with just enough weight on the first syllable to make it clear she caught the hesitation. There’s the faintest trace of a smile, the kind that could be passed off as simple politeness if one wasn’t paying attention, but in truth carries a quiet amusement at the effort taken to find the right form of address. She takes the offered hand without hurry, her fingers cool, the grip deliberate.

“Grace is simpler, of course,” she adds after a beat, her voice smoothing into something more conversational but no less measured. She releases the handshake with the same unhurried precision with which she took it.

Her gaze drifts briefly toward the display that prompted the comment, though she does not truly look away from Georgia for long. “Writing the texts for each display?” she repeats, letting the words draw out as if weighing the practicality of the suggestion against something far less mundane. “I imagine the curators prefer language that’s unobtrusive, palatable... the kind you skim without thinking, the kind that leaves no echo five steps later. My approach would be… less forgettable.” Harsher. She kept the last word to herself, of course.

She takes a slow sip from her glass, allowing the pause to sit just long enough to suggest she is picturing the effect. “If I were to write them, visitors might never reach the next room. They’d still be standing there, wondering if they were meant to laugh, or to feel slightly insulted, or to question something they hadn’t intended to. Which might make for a far richer experience, but I doubt it would suit the museum’s desire for a steady flow of traffic and eventual monetary contribution."

Her eyes return fully to Georgia now, the smile more visible this time, though it still carries that edge of reserve. “Still,” she says lightly, “what is it you do... or, more importantly, what is it you wish you could do?” The light in her eyes sharpens, already bright with the anticipation of a good answer, as though she is less interested in polite small talk and more in uncovering something worth keeping.

[dbmatriarch]

"You don't strike me as a simple woman." Georgia replies, and while it's true, she hopes it'll serve as a segue for the blonde to tell her no really, just Grace is fine. She prefers a first-name basis; whether because it breaks down the barriers of pretension one step sooner in a social interaction — or because of how tones immediately shift when her married name comes into any conversation, Georgia isn't sure.

But Capell... Has she known any Capells?

Grace's grip carries all the confidence of a woman who belongs in art rooms like these, and who's used to making introductions. "When you put it that way, the host of YAMI Radio seems better suited to writing up those texts... Palatable, unobtrusive, lifeless." She remarks, echoing Grace's adjectives and supplementing one of her own.

Crabsticks, she really hopes she isn't inadvertently insulting the blonde's favourite radio personality, but it can't be denied. The Del Bosques and the Shibatas have a monopoly on lifeless media; it's why she's so determined to convince Nora into the auditory world. With her music and her voice, the girl would surely charm even their hardest-hearted opponents. "Now look who's being uncharitable." She holds out her glass for a toast; to being the only guests not falling over themselves for this exhibit.

Unless she's quite literally fresh off the boat – which seems unlikely given the ease and sense of belonging the woman exudes – she probably already knows Georgia's line of work. Which makes her second question the more interesting one, and, Gigi suspects, the only one that's really being asked. 'What is it you wish you could do?...'

"Take a long, long vacation during which I don't run into anyone on this blessed island." The answer is soft enough to avoid being overheard, but unflinchingly honest. Georgia tilts her head, staring at that silly banana as she turns the question over in her mind.

"... Perfect my back crawl. Find a cure for menopause. Get my children to acknowledge that I actually know what I'm talking about, sometimes. Convince my PR manager that there's more to life than being a statue. Maybe deface a statue for once – but not just any one, of course – preferably one of those that's been ignored too long in some rich fossil's courtyard. Eat a lot of banana cream pie. Have a stomach that can handle a lot of banana cream pie." She looks over at the blonde, smiles. "Your turn."

Maybe not the answer she'd expected, but it's an answer, alright.

[kassajin-d]

[Kassajin]: So long as im not in em, nothings wrong with em

Kassajin reacted 😂 to 'That's the only reason I'll accept, however'

[Kassajin]: Ill let u know if I leave

[dbmatriarch]

[Georgia]: I've just seen the announcement, they aired it on TV

[Georgia]: Nevermind what I said Kass, you can leave early for any reason whatsoever and with any destination in mind

[Georgia]: I want the whole family out

[dbmatriarch]

... In Memes

@roiminic, @honeysnared, @websweavings, @kassajin-d, @glittergab, @salemduboiss, @rxdianced

[gracecapell]

Grace stops mid-stride, her eyes locking on the piece ahead. A banana. Duct-taped -- no, affixed -- to the wall with the kind of reverence usually reserved for saints or heiresses making their society debut.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just stares. Then blinks. Once.

“Well,” she says finally, voice as light as meringue and twice as brittle, “I suppose we’re all clinging to something.” She steps closer, hands folded like she’s at a wake. “It’s… daring,” she murmurs, tilting her head the way one might approach a badly parked car or a man explaining some kind of ball-sport. “Suggests both decay and permanence. Hunger and restraint. A commentary on impermanence. Or maybe just ... potassium."

A sip of wine. A breath. She turns to her unfortunate companion. “§120,000,” she says flatly. “That’s what it went for last time. The original. Different banana, same commitment to absurdism.”

Another beat. “They had to replace the fruit every two days. Preservation was part of the performance.” A pause.

That moment returned to her -- the stage, the audience, a helpless doe fallen and still.

Enough. Enough.

She remembers she’s in public and arranges her face accordingly -- a smile that means nothing but looks like it might. Then, as if remembering herself: “But I’m being uncharitable. It’s entirely possible this is the artist’s most nutritious work to date.”

She gives it one last look, then pivots, glass in hand, muttering, “I miss when art came in frames and didn’t need refrigeration. Grace Capell,” she offers smoothly, leaving the rest hanging -- an open cue for the woman to follow suit.

[dbmatriarch]

It's actually quite remarkable. The blonde (why does she look vaguely familiar?) turns to appraise the latest artwork and comes up with a critique that sounds like it might honestly belong to some high-brow Coronado ☆ Culture Magazine.

As if they're not staring at a banana taped to a wall.

Far from disdaining her for it, Gigi's genuinely impressed. It's a useful skill to be able to spin words like that on the spot — truer still if they're full of whale doo-doo.

Georgia's critical contribution?... "I'd kill for a banana cream pie right now."

But the bidding price for the glorified bit of potassium evokes another contribution out of her, this one unfiltered; strong enough to turn bystanders' ears red. "You kidding??... §120,000?!" She echoes, feeling a sudden blaze of righteous fury at the thought.

... Or maybe that's just a hot flush.

She shoots the display another glare. Never before has she been more tempted to turn to a life of petty crime. She's hungry, which doesn't help, and the wine is landing on an empty stomach — which also isn't helping.

"It's very nice to meet you, Gra-... Miss Capell? Mrs?..." Oh, why hadn't she just stuck with Grace? Georgia transfers the glass into her left hand and offers her right with a smile. "I'm Georgia. And they should really hire you to write the texts for each display."

[honeysnared]

tatiana settles into the chair opposite georgia's with a certain familiarity. even the tension she holds in her posture isn't unfamiliar given the circumstances. there was much to appreciate about the du bois' matriarch and any other day, she may have spared the time to list a few of those admirable qualities off. but not today. today she had to seize her opportunity to change the unchangable — georgia's mind. of course, tatiana knew it was a tough fight. once she'd made her mind up on something, her aunt was stubborn. but she could be too. if their blood relation had ran any closer, tatiana might have liked to think she got it from her. "this is the first event of its size after the premier's passing that all families have received an invitation to. no member spared or skipped, as far as its been reported back to me," she begins, skipping unnecessary pleasantries, "it would be in our best interest to show up as a united front to signal to coronado's people that the du bois' are a strong unit they can confide their trust in. your presence in particular is imperative as head of the family."

[dbmatriarch]

Tatiana doesn't look thrilled to be here, and much as she loves her niece, that makes two of them. She has to bite her tongue to keep from interrupting, fold her hands a little more tightly in her lap to manage the seemingly impossible task of keeping her feelings at bay. The Premier's death brings an unwelcome tension against the base of her skull... The hours of sleep she'd lost reliving those images must now tally into the hundreds. But for Georgia, it's all the more reason this event is a flaming insult.

"I didn't have much faith in the Premier, but his death was a horror, a warning. Things are changing in Coronado, Tatiana, whether the Del Bosques and the Shibatas like it or not." Her hands unfold, opening the desk drawer to her right. From it, she retrieves the invitation, tossing it onto the desk between them. "Why should we stick our heads in the sand and parrot "Coronado Eterna!" alongside them?... Alonso's ship has sailed. Pretending otherwise is a fantasy we have no business in helping them sustain."

[glittergab]

[Greta]: do whatever u want

[Greta]: she'll have her swimsuit in a twist either way

~ 1 hour later

[Greta]: oysters good, foam barf. like swallowing someone's spit. ❤️

~ 10 minutes later

[Greta]: mushrooms!! we love!! i give it four out of five missing gigis

~ 10 minutes later

[Greta]: trout good but theo's nose splint fell into hers which is bad obvi

~ 20 minutes later

[Greta]: guy at our table has never had beef before apparently

[Greta]: he looks familiar. did that tax thing you hated mayb?

[Greta]: "it's so tender!" chews chews chews "really, so tender!"

[Greta]: anyway, review is it's so tender

[Greta]: cheese and dessert incoming

[dbmatriarch]

Georgia liked 'do whatever u want'

Georgia liked 'trout good but theo's nose splint fell into hers which is bad obvi'

Georgia liked 'guy at our table has never had beef before apparently'

Georgia liked '"it's so tender!" chews chews chews "really, so tender!"'

[Georgia]: I saw the announcement on TV. It cut into 'Sunset Over The Southwest Sea', the absolute gall of it.

[Georgia]: Very important broadcast, apparently.

[Georgia]: I know Tati disagrees, but I want you all to leave.

[dbmatriarch]

LOCATION — Georgia's office. DATE — Before the events of Coronado Eterna. STARTER — Closed for @honeysnared

So Tatiana had heard.

Georgia wonders if it was one of her children who'd let it slip, or maybe even Dominic himself. It hardly matters, nothing escapes the eagle-eyed woman for long. Certainly not a decision to break with protocol and ignore an invitation to attend the big insult masquerading as dinner at Villa Solana.

But she's long since learned that it's easier to hear Tatiana out rather than refuse her outright. So she welcomes the woman into her office and takes a seat, pleased to see her even under the circumstances. But she also respects her formidable niece enough not to beat around the bush. "Alright, Tati... Make your case."

[honeysnared]

[Tatiana]: If we are the sole people getting up to leave in a rush, we'll look like children throwing a temper tantrum.

[Tatiana]: We cannot lose face in a moment as critical as this.

[Tatiana]: I don't like this one bit either, trust me.

[dbmatriarch]

🗸🗸 Message read.