The house that morning was too quiet. The kind of quiet that hummed with tension, where every sound clinking china, the creak of a chair, the whisper of movement down the hall seemed sharper, magnified.
Sierra padded into the kitchen, still in her robe, her stomach twisted with nerves. Vanessa was at the stove, her posture impeccable, flipping eggs as though it were the most natural thing in the world. But there was something in the way her shoulders moved too precise, too deliberate.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Vanessa said, her voice light, sweet. “Hungry?”
Sierra shook her head, clutching the robe tighter.
“Not even a little? You’ve been skipping meals lately.” Vanessa glanced over her shoulder, her eyes unreadable. “You look pale.”
Before Sierra could answer, Damien entered, the weight
