It was a statement.
At the far end of the table sat Eleanor Walsh, Adrian’s mother.
Rigid posture. Controlled expression.
Her fingers gripped a designer handbag as if it were armor.
The moment her eyes landed on me, they narrowed with cold recognition.
All three of them looked at me the same way people look at a bill they resent paying.
Why I Refused to Sit
Adrian gestured casually toward the empty chair across from him.
An invitation.
Or a command.
I remained standing.
Continue on the next page:
