How long has this house been a prison? Since Mother died? Since I was born? Since generations before me made choices that locked us all into these roles?
Father's study smells like leather, old books, and the expensive scotch he drinks in the evenings. He stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the grounds. The sunset paints everything in shades of blood and gold.
He doesn't turn when I enter. Just gestures toward a chair.
"Sit."
I obey. Lower myself onto the edge of a leather armchair, spine straight, hands folded in my lap. The perfect picture of a dutiful daughter.
Inside, I'm screaming.
The leather creaks as I shift. The clock on the mantel ticks—too loud, each second a small eternity. Outside, birds call to each other, oblivious to the tension in this room.
Finally, he turns. Fixes me with that hard stare I've known my entire life. "I hope you understand the gravity of your actions this morning. Bringing up delicate family matters in front of Prescott was unacceptable."
"I'm sorry." The words taste like ash. Like surrender. "I was confused. Overwhelmed."
"Understandable." Something flickers across his face. He moves to his desk and pours himself a drink from the crystal decanter. Doesn't offer me one. "But you must realize there are things in this world better left undisturbed. Our family's history is... complicated. Knowing too much could put you in danger."
Danger.The word he used with Prescott, in that gentle tone I'd never heard before.
I lean forward, unable to help myself. Hope flickers—stupid, fragile thing. "Then help me understand. Please, Father. I can handle the truth."
He shakes his head. Swirls the amber liquid in his glass, watching it catch the dying light. "No. You can't. Not yet." He drinks. "Perhaps after the wedding. When you're settled into your new role."
The hope dies. Quick and brutal. "My new role. As Prescott's wife."
"As a true Faulks." He sets down the glass with a decisive click. "Carrying on our legacy. Our responsibilities."
"What if I don't want that responsibility?" The words slip out before I can stop them. Reckless. Dangerous.
His expression hardens. The brief softness—if it was ever really there—vanishes. "You don't have a choice. None of us does. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
I match his stare, refusing to look away even as fear makes my palms slick. "The sooner you trust me enough to tell me the truth about our family and our responsibilities, the sooner I'll accept my role."
Cheap shot. Throwing his words back at him. But I can't resist.
Silence falls. Heavy. Oppressive. The clock ticks. The ice melts in his drink with tiny cracking sounds. Outside, the sky deepens from gold to purple to indigo.
I want to scream. To rage. To flip his desk, shatter that crystal decanter, and demand that he see me as something more than a pawn.
But I don't. Because I know it would do no good. His mind is made up. My fate is sealed.
"May I go?" My voice barely rises above a whisper.
He nods. Turns back to the window, dismissing me. "Yes."
I stand on shaky legs, willing them to carry me to the door. To not collapse. To maintain this facade of composure for just a few more seconds.
"And Viv?"
I stop. Don't turn around. Can't bear to see his face. "Yes?"
"I think it's best to limit your outside communications for a while. Focus on the wedding preparations." A pause. "Marcus will accompany you if you need to leave the house."
The last shred of freedom, snipped away. Clean. Surgical. Final.
"Yes, Father." The words come out woodenly. Mechanical. "Of course."
