Celina's POV
The hours crawled by like torture. Harriet's constant whining filled every corner of our shared space, each complaint more grating than the last. When lunch time arrived, she fixed me with that familiar look of disgust.
"Stay here," she commanded, adjusting her designer outfit in the mirror. "Don't even think about following me downstairs. I won't have you embarrassing me in front of the other candidates."
Her words cut deep, but I'd grown numb to them over the years. After she left, I rummaged through the mini-fridge, finding only stale nuts and warm soda. It would have to do. This kind of hunger was nothing new.
Harriet stormed back hours later, her face twisted with rage. "Those entitled bitches," she snarled, throwing her purse across the room. "Do they forget who I am? I'm Alan Grant's daughter, for crying out loud."
