The Blake mansion was always too quiet during dinner.
It wasn't the pleasant kind of quiet, the type that came with peace or comfort.
It was the kind that hummed with tension, where the sound of a knife scraping against porcelain felt louder than thunder.
The chandelier above them bathed the mahogany table in golden light, catching the silver edges of their cutlery and the glass of red wine Evelyn swirled with lazy grace.
To an outsider, it might have looked like a perfect family dinner among the country's most influential elites.
But to anyone who knew the Blakes, perfection was only the skin, underneath was venom.
Patrick Blake sat at the head of the table, back straight, eyes on his meal as though dissecting it.
Evelyn sat across from him, expression composed but her lips held a curve that promised mockery.
To her left was Victor, his jaw tight, his hand gripping his fork so hard the metal bent slightly.
