The Roast of Amara Lyselle

Marisol's slow, mocking applause filled the room as she leaned back against the armrest of the couch. "Bravo, Amara. I think that's the first good decision you've made in years."

Helena, who had apparently re-entered the room unnoticed, crossed her arms and raised a skeptical brow. "Years might be generous. Let's call it ever."

Amara groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Oh good, the reunion tour of 'Let's Roast Amara' is back on. Fantastic. What's next? A live audience?"

Elara, sitting beside Amara, lightly patted her arm. "Well, they're not wrong. That call was overdue."

"Et tu, Elara?" Amara muttered dramatically.

"Don't start quoting Latin; you barely passed your history classes in high school," Helena shot back, her voice dripping with unimpressed authority.

Amara clutched her chest as if she'd been mortally wounded. "Mother, please, my academic struggles are a family secret!"

"Not anymore," Helena deadpanned.