Belle's POV
The Whitmore mansion had never felt like home, not really. It was too grand, too polished, too steeped in my father's presence to allow for softness. But tonight, it felt more suffocating than ever, like the walls themselves had leaned closer to listen.
I sat in the drawing room, my hands clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles ached. The fire cracked in the hearth, but its warmth never reached me. My mother, Evelyn, sat beside me, her hand over mine, her touch light yet firm, as if she feared I might break apart without it.
And maybe she was right.
My father, Robert, stood near the fireplace, his posture as rigid as the marble mantle he leaned against. He had always been that way carved from stone, unyielding, as though emotions were weaknesses he had no time for. His expression gave nothing away, but his eyes were sharp, cutting, impossible to escape.
Then there was Jasper.
