Clara Vance stood in the doorway, her small frame dwarfed by her nightgown, staring at me with an intensity that belied her young age. The cold energy I'd sensed earlier emanated from her like frost from an open freezer door.
"Are you going to answer me?" she demanded, her voice unexpectedly sharp. "Are you dating Isabelle Ashworth?"
William shot me an apologetic look. "Clara, that's not appropriate—"
"It's fine," I said, studying the girl carefully. "Yes, Miss Ashworth and I are together."
Clara's lips twisted into a sneer. "She's way prettier than you. I've seen her in magazines."
"Clara!" William's face flushed with embarrassment.
I couldn't help but smile. "You're absolutely right. She is much prettier than me."
The girl seemed caught off guard by my agreement. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, her defensive posture not quite hiding how her legs trembled with fatigue.
