IMOGEN'S POV
The soft click of Elijah's shoes against the hardwood floor announced his return. He slid into his chair, his face a mask of practiced neutrality. His fork clinked against the china as he resumed eating, as if the world hadn't just been turned upside down.
I mirrored his actions, mechanically lifting my fork to my lips. The food tasted like ash in my mouth. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
My hand trembled, and the fork slipped from my grasp. It clattered against the plate with a jarring noise that echoed through the dining room.
Elijah's eyes snapped up to meet mine. I held his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Aren't you going to mention it?" The words tumbled from my lips, barely above a whisper but sharp as knives in the stillness.
His fork paused midway to his mouth. A flicker of something - surprise? guilt? - passed across his face before it settled back into its impassive mask.