“Oh, please.”
“The party where you apparently told Dad and half the family I was too busy with work to celebrate Lily?”
Victoria exhaled hard into the phone, the sound of a woman already tired of facts. “You always do this. Always. You twist everything so you can make yourself the victim.”
Alexandra turned slightly, watching the sunset slide down the glass until it painted her cheek in orange light. She had learned, over the years, not to give Victoria the satisfaction of an immediate wound. When Alexandra was seventeen, she had cried during an argument and watched something hungry brighten in Victoria’s eyes. She had never forgotten it.
“I’m not twisting anything,” Alexandra said. “I’m repeating what happened.”
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