Rosa set the silver tray down carefully on the side table beside Constance's armchair, her hands steady despite the persistent ache that had settled into her lower back over the last hour of standing. Constance lifted the glass, studied it with visible displeasure, and took a single, testing sip before setting it back down with a small, disapproving frown.
"This isn't what I asked for," she said, her voice cold and clipped, before reaching out and pushing the tray sharply across the small table.
The tray tipped, the glass sliding free and spilling its contents directly across Rosa's stomach and apron before clattering to the floor. Rosa gasped, stumbling back a step, the shock of cold liquid combined with the sudden, sharp tightening low in her abdomen driving her down onto her knees before she could steady herself.
Constance regarded the scene with visible indifference, arms crossing over her chest as she observed Rosa kneeling on the floor, juice soaking steadily through her uniform. "Please make another one," she said, her tone carrying no acknowledgment whatsoever of the spill, or of Rosa's evident distress.
Rosa remained frozen on her knees, one hand pressed instinctively against her stomach, tears beginning to gather as the tightness there intensified rather than fading, an unfamiliar, alarming sensation she hadn't experienced before in her pregnancy.