DEBORAH'S POV
The restaurant hummed with soft classical music, a luxurious symphony beneath the clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversation. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like delicate crystal spiders, catching the light and casting fractured reflections across the marble floors. Velvet booths lined the walls, occupied by Portland's social elite, their designer-clad bodies leaned in as they exchanged gossip over plated decadence.
Victoria sat across from me, her manicured fingers drumming against the linen-covered table as we waited for our food. She had been in this establishment for less than a minute, and already she had filled my ears with every social update I had missed. I needed this. A distraction. A reminder that the world wasn't just scandals and whispered betrayals.
Especially with what Dad and Elijah had been doing to that poor girl.
