Page 121 of Queen of Nothing

I slide out of my chair, then bow my head in Amelia’s direction. I turn a stony look on Dray.

His jaw is feathered, a side-glare aimed at Oliver who starts to push out of his chair.

“Until next time,” I say.

With that, all manners and masks, I follow Father out of the dining hall—and Oliver follows at my heels.

Father’s office is just as I remember it.

Tucked away in the cerulean walls of the Blue Wing, the moodiness of the room is welcoming with its glossy black fireplace and dark leather couches.

But I don’t feel welcome at all.

Father’s pace is brisk and determined to the blackwood desk across the room.

Mr Younge arrived before us.

He stands by the phone table, hands clasped behind his back, and his narrowed eyes are fixed on me.

Here, I peel off my mask.

Exhaustion takes over me.

It slackens my face and, rubbing at my eye, I drag myself over to the fireplace.

These old manors get so cold at night.

And even though it’s summer here in England, the draught that snakes into the office is too chilly for the thin polyester of my sweater.

Oliver shuts the door with a faint click.

My cheeks puff out with a whooshing breath before I drop onto the firm leather couch. The button tufted spine creaks under my slumping weight.

Angling myself to face Father at the desk, I listen to the faint crackles and pops coming from the hearth, and the rustle of papers in a drawer that he rummages through.

Oliver spares me a charged look—

One that isn’t nearly as kind as the reassuring moments he’s been peppering through our journey home.

I arch a brow at him.

He sinks into the armchair between the couch and the desk, his jaw as tight as Father’s.

From the armchair, Oliver pins a dark stare on me. “We are glad to have you home, Liv. But you choosing to return of your own accord does not erase the things you have done.”

Planting my elbow on the spine of the couch, I rest my temple on my fist.

All tired snark, I ask, “Was it hard to leave Serena behind or were you just relieved she wouldn’t find out about you and her best friend?”

Oliver’s mouth twitches, as though itching to contort into a snarl.

Father slams his hand down on the desk.

I flinch, and my arm drops from the back of the couch. I sit up a bit straighter.

Hand flat on the desk, Father pins down a folded newspaper. He looks at me from beneath his lashes, nothing forgiving in his stare.

My insides liquidate.