My heart stutters. There’s no anger in his tone, no sharpness. But that’s what makes it terrifying. His self-control, his calm, that’s his weapon. You never know when he’ll snap, but you know he will eventually. Can see it in his eyes.
I sit, my back straight, my hands folded neatly in my lap. I make sure my feet are flat on the floor, my posture perfect. I don’t look at him yet, though I probably should.
He sits across from me, his chair scraping against the floor. I finally look at him and watch as he leans back, his body relaxed, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. But he isn’t looking at the food, he’s looking at me.
At my face. At my eyes.
I hate my eyes. I didn’t used to. Once, I loved them. They were the only thing about me that was different. The only part of me that didn’t look like them. Everyone in my family has deep, dark brown eyes—so dark they were almost black. Shadows. But not me.
I have my grandmother’s eyes. Amber, golden, bright, clear. Too bright. Too different.
Nikolai, my biological father, hated them. He said they made me look strange, like I didn’t belong to him. Like I didn’t belong in his house, with his wife and his son who all looked the same. White hair, dark eyes. Identical.
That’s what they were known for. How they were identified on the street, or by the paparazzi.
I didn’t look like them. I never would. And I loved that. I loved how my eyes separated me, marked me as something other, something apart. I loved that he hated them.
But Pete loves them, always has. Which makes me despise them even more.
One night, after my brother and Nikolai had left, I stared at myself in the mirror, at the pale strands of my hair shining in the harsh bathroom light. It looked wrong. It looked like them.
I didn’t want to be like them.
I dyed my hair then, a dark brown. I wanted to be unrecognizable. I wanted to look as different as I possibly could. But I missed a spot.
My incompetent, fourteen-year-old self hadactuallymissed a spot. A large one too. Leaving a streak of white amidst the layers of brown.
I should have dyed it again. I should have covered it up.
But I didn’t. I never did.
I’m not sure why.
“How was your day?” he asks, his voice perfectly even. Almost pleasant. A question without curiosity.
I swallow hard, keeping my gaze fixed on my plate. “Good,” I say, because for the time being, it’s the safest answer. But also, because I really don’t feel like talking to him.
His fingers keep drumming, a sound that actually manages to echo in my skull. “Did you get your test results back?”
My pulse stumbles, panic tightening in my chest. My mouth goes dry, and I fight to keep my face blank, my voice steady. “No.”
The drumming stops. His face doesn’t change. I know he sees right through me, and I know I’ll have to tell the truth sooner or later. But can you blame me for wanting to drag it on for a little longer until the inevitable happens?
His chair scrapes against the floor, and he stands.
“Liar.”
The word is soft, almost gentle. It would have been better if he shouted. At least then, it would be over.
He walks around the table, his footsteps measured and unhurried. My body locks up, my spine rigid, my hands clenched so tight my nails cut into my palms. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t dare.
He stops behind me, his presence alone pressing down on me, and my throat closes. I feel his hand before it touches me, hovering just above my shoulder, before his fingers curl around the back of my neck, his grip firm enough to make my eye twitch.
I freeze, my blood turning to ice.
He squeezes, his fingers pressing into the delicate bones, sending pain shooting down my spine. I bite my lip, hard enough to taste blood, and stay silent. If I make a sound, it’ll be worse.
Crying never changed anything—it only made them angrier.
