Silence descended like a wet blanket. The air thickened, suffocating.
Charlotte stood, raising her glass to break the tension.
"Isabella... the Professor helped me because he didn't want to hurt you, not because he favors me. The culprit here is me. I've let you down."
She lifted the wine to her lips.
Dad reached out and stopped her hand. Then he turned to me.
That look.
The familiar, crushing disappointment—the look one gives a piece of iron that refuses to become steel.
"Look how sensible Charlotte is," he said, his voice dripping with comparison. "Unlike you—throwing tantrums at the drop of a hat. We'll let it go this time. But in the future, you need to help Charlotte more. She's from a small town. She isn't used to city life."
Mom chimed in, echoing the sentiment. She rambled on about Charlotte's hard life, her grit, her success against all odds.
A dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat.
I reached into my bag, pulled out the official suspension notice, and slapped it onto the rotating glass table.
"I'm not doing so great either." My voice was steady. "The university forced me out. Since we're handing out pity—how about you spare some for me?"