They hadn’t lived her nights of grief. They hadn’t felt the sting of betrayal or the hollow ache of losing everything before she had ever truly held it. And yet, these self-righteous, poisonous women spat judgment like they were gods on their thrones.
A low, humorless laugh escaped her lips. At first, it was soft.Then it grew louder, richer, and darkened by scorn.
Her laughter wrapped around the tense dining room, making every head turn toward her. She raised her chin, her gaze sweeping over the women across the table while the sister, the weeping Sylvia, the ever-composed Mrs. Chyntia as though she were standing at the peak of a mountain looking down at ants.
Her left hand, trembling with restrained fury, found Arnav’s beneath the table and curled around it, a silent signal.
Let me.
