Isabel’s POV
The warmth of my morning coffee seeps through the ceramic mug, comforting my hands as I wander through the house in my flip-flops. The faint echo of my steps against the polished marble floors is my only companion until I catch sight of my mother in the living room, her posture straight, her lips pressed tight, phone in hand.
“Claire,” she calls out, her tone clipped yet soft, the way she always does when she’s unsure how I’ll react. “It’s your dad. He wants to speak with you.”
My heart skips, the mug trembling slightly in my grip. I force myself to swallow, but the unease creeps in. I glance at her, searching her face for an explanation, but she offers none, her shoulders lifting in a quick shrug as if to say, Don’t look at me. I don’t know.
The last thing I remember is h
