The question filled the room with a bone-deep silence, the kind that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until you can barely breathe.
Avery was perfectly still, but her hands were clenched so tightly her nails pressed into her palms, a physical anchor to keep her composure from splintering.
She stared directly at Mr. Keaton, who sat across the table with the smugness of a man convinced he was watching someone unravel.
This man… he wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. The glee in his voice, the subtle smirk twisting his lips, the deliberately framed questions—they all screamed the same thing: he wanted her destroyed.
She exhaled through her nose and raised her chin just a little higher, straightening her back before speaking.
