The air between them was thin and sharp, as if the room itself had turned against them. Eleanor stood facing Lysandra, her posture languid but her soft blue eyes stripped of all warmth, like winter skies over frozen graves. To Ryan, watching from the side, the woman before him seemed a stranger wearing his aunt's familiar face. A shiver crawled up his spine. Eleanor had always been mischievous, playful even—but this Eleanor? She was a blade sheathed in silk.
"Long time no chat, Lysandra," Eleanor said, voice lilting with an old, mocking melody.
Across the table, Lysandra dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, a movement too precise to be casual. Her fingers curled the cloth like a noose tightening around a throat. Her painted lips quivered, though her voice stayed steady. "Long time no chat, Elle."
