Abigail
Dinner was a war zone of silence.
The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery against plates, the occasional scrape of a chair being pushed back. And with every passing second, the tension in the room grew, like a pressure cooker about to blow its lid.
Owen and I sat at opposite ends of the table, both stiff as boards. We hadn’t spoken more than a few words since he dragged me back from finding me with Theo. Wouldn’t even hear me out. He was a complete jerk recently, like he was suddenly some grown up.
I could feel Owen’s gaze burning into my face every now and then, but I refused to meet it. He knew it, and I knew it—we were pissed, and if we dared say a word, that thread may snap.
Mom glance up at Dad, both of them quiet too, but there was a heaviness to their silence—som
