Abegail’s POV
The tires hadn’t even finished crunching over the gravel when the front door flung open like a storm-battered shutter. Mayor Dorian Laveau, my father, and his wife, my mother, rushed out as if the driveway itself had caught fire.
“Abegail?” my father snapped, thunder in his voice as he charged down the porch steps. My mother trailed behind him, her silk robe billowing like wings torn from a fallen angel.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” she hissed, her eyes flicking from the suitcase at my side to the swell of my belly, as though I’d shown up carrying a bomb instead of a baby.
I stepped out of the car with deliberate slowness, the sharp click of my heels echoing like gunshots across the quiet morning. My smile was brittle, cracking at the edges like frozen glass.
