Addison remembered the moment the smaller girl carefully crafted a flower crown from daisies and gently placed it on her playmate's head. "Sister, you're so beautiful..." she had whispered, eyes cast downward, fidgeting nervously with her fingers.
That shy little girl—her movements, her uncertainty, her soft admiration—mirrored Mila's demeanor perfectly.
And now, standing here, Addison couldn't help but compare the sincere look on Mila's face to that of Claire's—the woman who had mastered the art of false innocence. Claire, who would say one thing and mean another, who wore her innocence like a mask while cornering Addison with subtle malice, always smirking as if she'd won something invisible.
But Mila was different. The nervousness in her eyes wasn't calculated. It was genuine. The memory confirmed it—at least, it seemed so.
