It didn't matter that she'd been harsh to Victor (even if nothing she had said was actually against him), Beatrice had never actually expected him to be so harsh with her. It was enough that she wilted instantly, losing any fire she once had, her shoulders curling in, hands trembling, as she stared down at the table, quite unable to look her brother in the face. Maybe their father leaving was a sore subject for both of them, but to hear him outright say that Bea's bad luck with the season was entirely her own fault with no play from any sort of outside factors hurt. It physically stung to the point of tears. It felt like he'd taken the block she was standing on and ripped it out from underneath her leaving everything to cave in around her. It was hard to breathe.

"If you'll excuse me," Beatrice croaked, her voice barely above a whisper. The chair scratched loudly against the floor, echoing in the far, far to silent room. "I am going to return to my room now. If you'll let Mother know I won't be attending the ball tonight, please?"