The atmosphere of the Vanderbilt dining room felt different now—larger, colder, and somehow more imposing than I remembered. Or maybe it was just that I was seeing it through the new, thin veil of gauze that Dr. Thorpe had wrapped around my mind. The clink of silver against fine china sounded like a series of small, sharp alarms in the quiet space, vibrating through my jaw. Across the long expanse of the polished mahogany table, Jason sat watching me. His expression was soft, yet his eyes were almost too attentive, tracking every movement of my hands.
"It’s good to have you back at the table, Sarah," he said, his voice as smooth and comforting as aged velvet.
I nodded, the "painted-on" smile feeling a bit more natural in the warm, amber glow of the crystal chandelier. "It feels... nice.
