The Rich Life

Wanda sat down at the dining table under the maid's guidance, her face full of embarrassment, and greeted the witches.

The lavish carpet was soft beneath her feet. Exquisite bust sculptures sat atop tables, vividly colored oil paintings and tapestries covered the walls, and expensive porcelain and wine cabinets stood on the other side of the room. The window glass was so clean it seemed nonexistent, while the dark brown wooden floor gleamed brightly and the deep red curtains were neatly tied to one side. Everything sparkled. Anyone could see that someone had put tremendous effort into maintaining it all, and Wanda was certain this was the Baroque style Salomon favored.

The witches, clad only in thin nightgowns, lounged lazily against high-backed chairs by the dining table. Their flawless, athletic long legs were casually stretched out, their belts loosely tied, and their collars hung low enough to reveal their perfect figures. Clearly, they wore nothing but those garments. That put enormous pressure on Wanda, who was dressed the same way and had wrapped herself up tightly. Few people in the world could remain calm when confronted with a witch's beauty in person, especially while wearing the same seductive nightgown in a different pattern. Wanda felt as if she were about to burst into flames. She only wanted to hide her face behind the large plate the maid had brought over, lest she embarrass herself further in such a stark comparison—her nails were unevenly trimmed, her lips were chapped, and years of labor had robbed her fingers of their slenderness and smoothness. Her teeth felt crooked, her nose bridge too high, and her eyes too small.

The polished oak table reflected her flushed cheeks and tightly shut eyes.

"How did you sleep last night?" Bayonetta suddenly asked. Startled, Wanda nearly overturned