Gabriella's P.O.V

I could see it the moment Madam Synclair’s eyes scanned me from head to toe—the slight downturn of her mouth, the almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes, the twitch in her fingers as they clasped her teacup just a little tighter. She was judging me, and she wasn’t hiding it well anymore. Her composure, once pristine and polished, shifted like a crack running through fine china. She cleared her throat delicately and turned slightly to my father, her voice ...