“Another Delilah?” I ask.
“You know,” she says, shifting uncomfortably. “The infamous Knox, Finn, and Delilah situation.”
“The what now?” I ask, brows lifting.
Victoria’s eyes are fixed on me.
I watch her also, not wanting to miss any telltale sign on her face. She’s surprised. She tries to hide it, of course, quickly repairing her expression. But I catch it. She expected me to know what she's on about.
And now I’m stuck trying to decide if I should let her off the hook or press for the story she clearly doesn’t want to tell.
The thing is—I think I already know. Or at least I have a sinking, nauseating feeling clawing at my thoughts.
But my mind refuses to wrap itself around what she might actually be implying.
Knox. Finn. Delilah.
There was a history between them, one messy enoug
