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ELEANOR
I sat at the dining table with my father, the soft clinking of silverware against porcelain the only sound between us for a while. The rich aroma of dinner filled the room, but the tension hung heavier.
My father sat at the head of the table, posture regal and calm as he ate his meal with measured precision. He’d been that way my entire life—solid, in control, never giving away too much of what he was thinking.
Tonight was no different, except for the brief flicker of concern in his eyes as he glanced my way.
I could read him without even looking at him.
Lena had already left after spending most of the day by my side. When my father learned about the tension with Dante, he immediately offered to stay and keep me company. I appreciated the gesture, though a part of
