The dining hall gleamed in the morning light, the long table lined with silverware that caught every sunbeam. The food spread between them smelled rich and familiar—Adam's favorites, every dish chosen with precision.
But it wasn't the food that thickened the air.
It was the masks.
Beatrice sat straight-backed at the far end, her smirk softened into something almost gracious. Natalia moved gracefully, pouring juice into crystal glasses, her apron neat, her expression carefully painted with sweetness. Adam leaned in his chair, shoulders rigid, his jaw set like steel, trying to pretend this wasn't a battlefield disguised as breakfast.
And Sofia—barefoot in her robe, her hair catching the light—sat with no mask at all. Her expression wasn't crafted. It was raw, open, too real, too sincere. She didn't bother to hide the quiet curiosity in her eyes or the soft amusement that played at her lips.
