Just months ago, I thought September would be spent planning my mother’s funeral. Then, almost absurdly, a job offer appeared — money, security, and the freedom I’d only dared to imagine.
Freedom.
A word I used to take for granted. Now it feels like oxygen.
I’ve rehearsed my lines. Picked the perfect heels to impress Louise LeFounde, La Rouge’s creative director. My portfolio is laid out on the nightstand, waiting.
“Tomorrow will be perfect,” I whisper into the thick silence of my room. “You got this, Bea.”
But then a knock splinters my train of thought. I turn toward the door, my heart lurching in my chest.
“Yes?”
“Beatrice,” my father Aruto calls. He doesn’t sound like himself. “Please come to the living room.”
My stomach clenches — an automatic reaction after seven years of bad news delivered in that room.
I try not to think too much of it. There’s no reason to worry. My mother is fine; she’s baking cookies as we speak.
I cinch the towel tighter around my damp hair and walk to the door. I wait a beat, take a breath, and open it.
“Dad?”
He doesn’t speak. His red-rimmed eyes lock on mine and I freeze.
“Did something happen to Mom?”
“No, no, no.” He shakes his head too fast, too hard. “Your mother is fine. I… I just need you to come downstairs. We need to discuss something.”
My brows knit. “Why can’t we just talk here, Dad? I have an early morning tomorrow. Remember? I told you about the interview?—”
“Please just come downstairs, Bea. It’s important. And we have a guest.”
“A guest?”
“Yes.” His jaw tightens, his shoulders stiff. “But get dressed. Put on that white sundress of yours. It’s more appropriate for this.”
“Sundress? Dad, it’s almost eight at night.”
“Just do it, Beatrice. I don’t want to fight you on this.”
“Fight me?” I stare at him like he’s grown two heads. “What the hell is going on?”
He won’t meet my eyes. His shirt is wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot. There’s a tremor in his jaw I haven’t seen since the night Mama went in for emergency surgery.
“Dad… it’s eight in the evening.” My stomach flips hard. Something about all of this feels wrong. “What’s going on?”
“Just get dressed and come downstairs.” His voice cracks, and then he turns away. “I’ll explain everything when you’re there.”
But I don’t get dressed. I don’t wait.
I follow him down the hallway, chest tight, heart thudding a warning in my ribs.
As he starts down the stairs, the scent hits me — whiskey. Cheap, sharp. Clinging to him like a second skin.
He’s drinking.
My father never drinks. Not unless he’s teetering on the edge of despair. Or madness. And judging by the wildness in his eyes, this is both.
