Amelia’s POV
The clinking of silverware over dinner fills the room. The scent of roasted turkey, cinnamon, and buttered rolls drifts through the Wilson dining hall, creating the illusion of some sort of silence.
And just like every other family Thanksgiving over the past months here with the Wilsons, the table stretches so long I could barely pass the mashed potatoes to the other end without a relay system.
Apparently, it’s my sixth Thanksgiving with the Wilsons and if there's one thing I’ve learned since moving into the Wilsons’ mansion, it’s that dinner here isn’t just dinner. It’s a performance.
But annoyingly, as I sit here at this impossibly polished table, my fork hovering over my plate, all I feel is the sudden weight of being examined. Like I’m a guest on trial rather than fam
