"Why don't you two join us for dinner tonight?" Celia's voice is steady, but there's a hint of hesitance beneath her words.
I glance at her, taking in the resemblance she bears to Thorne. There's something in her expression, a quiet nervousness, as though she's expecting me to turn her down, to dislike her for some imagined slight.
But I don't dislike her. Neither does Thorne, for that matter. If anything, we're indifferent. She's like a stranger who happens to share a familial bond with my husband—a distant figure neither close enough to have affection for nor far enough to resent.
"Sure," I reply with a polite smile, my hand resting lightly on Mirelle's back. My little girl is fast asleep, her tiny breaths soft against my chest.
