Bella's POV
The wine glass trembled slightly in my left hand as Camilla continued her performance. Her voice dripped with false sweetness, each word calculated to sound apologetic while shifting blame.
"I really am sorry, Bella. I know you probably think I say this every time, but I genuinely don't enjoy seeing you hurt. It's just that when you speak to my mother that way, it cuts deep," she said, that practiced smile never wavering.
Dinner had ended some time ago. The children were tucked safely in their beds, and now we sat in the living room like civilized adults sharing wine. The irony wasn't lost on me.
Vance's grip on my right hand was almost painful in its intensity. His fingers laced through mine with such force that I wondered if he was holding me back or holding himself together. Either way, I was grateful for the anchor.
