Eleanor's gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, toward her father, who stood several feet away near the bar, a crystal glass of scotch in hand, his expression carrying the particular scowl he reserved for moments when Eleanor's presence disrupted the polished image he preferred to project. He said nothing to defend her. He simply watched, his silence somehow more devastating than any direct cruelty Vivian could have offered.
Eleanor had long ago stopped expecting her father's intervention in these moments, though some small, persistent part of her continued, foolishly, to hope for it each time regardless. Tonight, watching his jaw tighten with obvious discomfort while he still said nothing, she felt that hope finally, quietly extinguish itself.
It was then that a naval officer standing nearby, apparently overhearing the full exchange, set down his own drink with enough force that the glass slipped from his grip entirely, shattering against the marble floor, liquid splashing across polished white shoes and drawing immediate, startled attention from the surrounding guests.
The officer didn't apologize for the broken glass. He simply crossed the small distance toward Richard Harrington, his expression carrying an authority that made even Vivian's mocking smile falter slightly.