1
My foot taps restlessly on the hardwood floor as my eyes drift around the front room of my childhood home.
It’s scarcely changed over the years. It’s exactly how I’ve always remembered it. Perfect. Pristine. And…white. So white it’s almost blinding. There’s not a speck of dirt or dust anywhere in sight. Everything in the room is immaculate, void of clutter and mess, something both of my parents hate.
It’s cold. There’s no warmth, noheart. There’s not a single hint that a family even lives here. ThatIgrew up here. There are no photographs, no drawings I did as a child, no pictures from family vacations, not that we had any what with myfather always too busy working. And despite how huge and empty the room is, the stark white walls are slowly closing in on me with every minute that ticks by.
In eight years, I can safely say I’ve spent less than three hundred and sixty-five days in total inside this house. As soon as I turned eleven, I was shipped off to boarding school so fast you’d think I had come down with the plague. From there, I was shoved into college after I graduated and only allowed back home during the holidays. Anyone would think my parents never wanted a child for the amount of time they’ve seen me. If it weren’t for the DNA I share with them, they’re practically strangers to me.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans as my foot continues to tap on the floor, the sound echoing through the wide empty room. The deep steadying breaths I’ve been practicing since I got on my flight from Boston are doing little to settle my nerves. Hell, I don’t think a horse tranquiliser could help me relax right now.
My stomach lurches when I hear the crunch of gravel outside as a car pulls up on the driveway, signalling my father’s arrival home from work.
He’s pissed. I know that without even having to speak to him.
It’s not even been twenty-four hours since I quit law school just a few weeks into my second year and the nerves have been stewing in my belly ever since. It just so happens my father is friends with the school’s president, so I knew it wouldn’t be long before my father found out what I’d done, only I didn’t expect it to be quite so quick. I’d only left the building after announcing I wouldn’t be continuing my studies for two whole minutes before a text chimed through on my phone.Three short, sharp words lighting up my screen that filled me with more dread than if he’d sent an entire paragraph berating me:
Come home. Now.
A couple of hours later there was a car waiting to take me to the airport and another to pick me up when I got off the plane and the tension has continued to build. Just the way he plans it.
My father has this uncanny way of being angry, but not letting it show on his face.
You can tell a lot by someone’s eyes, and all it takes is a single look from my father to know you’re in deep shit.
He’ll be pissed, but he won’ttellyou outright that he’s pissed. He won’t raise his voice or punch through a wall with his fists in a fit of rage. He’ll sit there calmly, not looking at you directly and turn everything back around on you, gaslighting you into thinking thatyou’rethe problem. It must be some psychological mind-game bullshit because it’s terrified me ever since I was a child, either that or he’s a pro at keeping a lock on his emotions. Maybe it’s both.
Sometimes I wish he’d just lose it and scream at me like any normal parent would, shout at me until the walls shake and my ears ring, but he doesn’t, and I think that’s worse, and he knows it. He knows he has the upper hand, he always does, and he’s really good at making you a quivering wreck without saying a single word.
I’m nineteen years old but in the presence of my father, I’m a child again, that same little girl terrified of disappointing her father, something I’m apparently very good at.
My heart rate spikes as a car door slams, gravel crunching underfoot as he nears the front door. A few seconds later thefront door opens and closes, the distinct sound of my father’s shoes clicking along the wooden flooring in the hallway. My heart spikes as his controlled footsteps grow closer, so I straighten my spine and lift my chin, willing myself to remain strong.
A second later he enters the room, not bothering to glance in my direction as he heads straight to the bar where he pours himself a drink from the crystal decanter sitting there.
His black suit is tailored to precision, fitting his tall frame and lean build perfectly. He’s a creature of habit, a different coloured suit for every day. Mondays have always been black suit day, like he’s attending a funeral. And I suppose he is…
Mine.
With his back to me, he takes a swig of his drink before his voice cuts through the deafening silence in the room, “I trust you had a safe flight.”
“Yes, Father.” The days of referring to him asDaddyare long gone, left behind in a childhood that seems like a lifetime ago, and for the amount of time I’ve spent with him over the years, we don’t have a close enough bond where I feel comfortable enough to call himDad.
“And you are well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Hm. Strange. Are you sure you’re not sick?”
His question throws me. I press my palm to my forehead, checking for signs of a fever. “Uh, yeah. I feel fine. Why?”
“I assumed you must be sick given recent events.”
My stomach bottoms out and I suck in a breath.Shit.Here we go.
He refills his glass before finally turning to face me. “I thought it the only plausible explanation as to why you woulddrop out of college,” he says casually, though there’s nothing casual in his words. “I had hoped President Knowles had been misinformed when he called me yesterday, that he must’ve been mistaken, but it seems he was not.”
His expression is hard as he pins me with his eyes and despite his scrutinous gaze, I find it impossible to look away. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I can feel my pulse in my eardrums.
