Penny's POV
Savannah doesn't wait for an invitation. Of course she doesn't. She leans against the doorframe, one manicured hand propped on her hip like she owns the air we're breathing.
"Penelope," she says smoothly, "can we talk? Privately."
I glance at Mom, at Dad, at Jessie—whose eyebrows are climbing up toward her hairline—and finally at Nick, who mutters loud enough for everyone to hear, "Oh boy, the claws are out."
"Nick," Mom warns.
"What? I'm narrating!" He throws his arms out. "This is prime-time drama."
Savannah's smirk doesn't falter. She flicks her gaze to me, cool and direct. "Well?"
I straighten, pulse hammering. "Sure. Kitchen."
She follows, heels clicking like punctuation marks behind me.
The minute we're alone, Savannah drops the fake sweetness. Not cruel, not venomous—just sharp and focused.
"You love him," she says. Not a question.
My throat tightens. "Yes."
