Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

The chandelier above shimmered faintly, scattering golden light over silver cutlery and untouched plates. Jake sat at the head of the long table, posture perfect, his wine glass turning slowly in his hand. His expression was calm, too calm — the kind of stillness that warned of something brewing underneath.

I sat two seats away, my fork hovering uselessly above my plate. The roasted duck on my dish looked beautiful, perfect even, but my stomach couldn’t hold ...