Dora's fingers tightened around the spoon, its handle cold against her warm skin. She watched Xavier through narrowed eyes, her gaze sharp as a blade. The suspicion in her chest twisted like a snake, coiling tighter with each tender glance he cast toward Cathleen. Dora forced a smile, as brittle as glass. "Try this," she urged, her voice honeyed poison, sliding some eggplant onto Cathleen's plate with calculated grace.

Cathleen rose from her seat, an elegant dismissal. "I'm sorry, I am not hungry." Her words sliced the tension, and she turned away, hips swaying as she moved to the kitchen counter to prepare fresh orange juice. The whir of the...