NIKO.
My mother had always possessed a talent for turning warmth into frost. She sat across from me in the second living room with her spine perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap, her expression carved from the same stone that once ruled our family estate. The twins were nearby, whispering excitedly to Edmund as they animatedly recounted the fun they had been having: the baking, singing, costumes, movies. They meant well. I knew they did. They wanted their grandmother to see how happy they were.
But with every word they spoke, I saw my mother’s displeasure deepen.
“So,” she said coolly when the twins finally ran off, “this is what you’ve turned your mourning into.”
I clenched my jaw. “Mother—”
“Eliana died on Christmas Day,” she interrupted sharply. “And yet here you are, la
