Writing angst is so fricking hard. Also, MY FINGERS HURT, DAMN.
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The grand dining room of the Mo family mansion was bathed in the soft glow of a crystal chandelier, its light casting elegant patterns across the long mahogany table and the heavy silk drapes that framed tall windows.
The air carried the rich aromas of a meticulously prepared dinner—savory braised meats, steamed vegetables glistening with delicate sauces, and fragrant rice—yet the warmth of the meal did little to ease the underlying tension that always seemed to thicken the atmosphere during family dinners.
Porcelain plates clinked softly against silverware, and the large room echoed with voices that carried both pride and subtle pressure.
