Elena's POV
For a moment, my tongue forgot how to work. I just stood there, gaping like a landed fish, while Bella Thompson examined me the way one might examine an unexpected stain on a favorite rug.
"Hi," I finally managed—brilliant, truly.
Bella didn't acknowledge me. She didn't even look at me. She simply flicked her wrist in my general direction and swept past, her heels clicking against the marble floor like tiny declarations of war. The scent of expensive perfume trailed behind her, cloying and sharp.
I followed, because what else could I do?
She strode straight to the dining table, stopping before my carefully arranged spread. Her eyes raked over the dishes—the salmon, the potatoes, the asparagus—with the kind of critical assessment that suggested she was searching for flaws.
