CHAPTER 275
KATYA POV
Dinner began the way all dinners in this house did—quietly, deliberately, with the soft, almost fragile clink of cutlery against porcelain sounding far louder than it should have in the vast dining room.
Plates were already set when we sat down, positioned with an almost mathematical precision, the food arranged with care that felt less like routine and more like ritual.
Nothing in this house was accidental. Not the seating. Not the timing. Not even the silence.
The scent alone was enough to remind me that I hadn't eaten much all day. Rosemary and garlic. Fresh bread. Something slow-cooked and rich. It should have made me hungry.
It didn't.
My appetite lagged somewhere behind, caught in the tight space between nerves and awareness.
