Miranda had braced herself for confrontation, but this was a full-blown assault.
The moment she stepped into her aunt and uncle's opulent dining room, the rich aroma of roasted lamb and freshly baked bread wafted toward her—a stark contrast to the palpable tension filling the space. At opposite ends of the gleaming mahogany table sat Aunt Gra and Uncle March, their faces wearing carefully constructed masks of neutrality. Myrna stood silently near the crackling fireplace, hands clasped tightly before her, tension evident in her rigid posture.
And there was Ryan, already seated, one arm draped casually over the back of his chair like he owned the place. His expression oozed confidence—the smug look of a man who believed victory was within reach. The sight of him made Miranda's stomach churn with hatred.
The door creaked open behind her, and Miranda didn't need to turn to know who it was. Suzanne. Perfect. The circus was complete.
