(Chapter Five:Mira Pov)
The scent of rosemary and slow-cooked meat drifts through the air as I take my seat at the long dining table, trying to ignore the weight of the eyes on me. The chandelier above casts a warm glow over the polished silverware and fine china, an illusion of warmth in a house that has never truly felt like home.
Lillian, my stepmother, sits at the head of the table, her presence effortlessly commanding. Dressed in an elegant emerald-green gown, she looks the part of a refined hostess, but I know better than to be fooled by appearances. Bianca, my stepsister, sits to her right, idly swirling the wine in her glass, her lips curved in something that isn't quite a smile.
"You've been awfully hard to reach lately, Mira," Lillian says, her voice smooth as silk, yet there's an edge beneath it. "We barely see you around anymore."
I force a small, polite smile. "I've been busy."
"Busy doing what, exactly?" Bianca cuts in, her tone laced with amusement. "Skipping school? Running around with—" She pauses dramatically, tapping a manicured nail against her wine glass. "Well, whoever it is you spend your time with these days."
I pick up my fork, stabbing at the roasted vegetables on my plate. "I wasn't aware my schedule needed to be reported to you."
Bianca chuckles, exchanging a glance with Lillian. "Touchy, aren't we?"
Lillian exhales as if she's already exhausted with the conversation, yet I know she's just getting started. "You know, Mira, I invited you here tonight because I worry about you. You're my stepdaughter, after all. And your behavior has been… different."
There it is.
I pause, lifting my gaze to meet hers. "Different how?"
She studies me carefully, like a cat toying with its prey. "You don't seem like the same girl you used to be." She tilts her head, waiting for a reaction, but I give her none. "You've become more confident, more… aware of things. I only wonder where that change is coming from."
Bianca hums in agreement. "It's almost like you're hiding something."
The way they're watching me, waiting for me to slip, makes my stomach turn. They don't know anything for sure—but they suspect. That's dangerous enough.
I set my fork down. "Maybe I just grew up."
Lillian smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Or maybe you've learned how to play the game better."
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. The clinking of silverware and the soft crackling of the fireplace are the only sounds in the room.
Then, as if deciding to change tactics, Lillian reaches for the wine bottle and pours me a glass. "Drink," she urges, her tone deceptively kind. "Let's enjoy this dinner properly, shall we?"
I hesitate for only a second before taking the glass. Not because I trust her—but because I refuse to let her see even a sliver of doubt in me.
Bianca watches me as I take a slow sip. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
I smile faintly, setting the glass down. "No. It wasn't."
But I know, deep down, that this was more than just a family dinner. It was a test. And I need to be very careful about what happens next.