Eloise My heart hammered against my ribs as George and I descended the staircase, our footsteps the only sound breaking the quiet. I clutched his hand tighter, my palm slick with nervous sweat, drawing what little strength I could from the warmth of his fingers. Each step toward the sofa felt heavier than the last, my legs leaden with dread. Conquer this fear, I told myself, forcing my chin up even as anxiety coiled tight in my stomach. Auntie Gillie sat rigidly on the loveseat opposite us, her posture impeccable. Her sharp, piercing gaze flicked toward me repeatedly assessing, probing though her lips remained pressed into a thin, disapproving line. She said nothing directly about my presence, but the weight of her unspoken disapproval hung thicker than the scent of polished oak and faint lavender from the nearby diffuser. George’s parents flanked her, their faces etched with a mixture of exhaustion, concern, and quiet anger. We settled onto the sofa, the cushions yielding soft
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