The Sangria War

Wrapped in guilt

Lolita opened her bedroom door to see James in the hallway. His brown suit hung loose on his shoulders.

"What are you disturbing me for?" Lolita asked coldly, wiping a chocolate stain from her red lips with the sleeve of her pink silk night robe.

"We need to talk," he said coldly.

She tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "Why, I'm watching my favourite TV show?"

James didn't flinch. "Sterling noticed digital discrepancies. Money moved through Council-backed accounts in large amounts."

She c****d her head to the side. "Does Sterling not care about charity?"

"You wired seven figures to a foundation that doesn't exist on paper. That's not charity. That's fraud."

"It was urgent," she muttered, eyes flicking away.

"Let me see the account."

Lolita waved a hand. "Don't worry. Artemis is helping me."

James narrowed his eyes. "Artemis? He hasn't touched Council finance since the audit last year."

"He's consulting," she said quickly. "I asked him to."

James stepped closer. "I'll speak to him myself."

"No," her voice cracked. "You don't need to. I'm your daughter. You can trust me."

James's nostrils flared, but the fire behind his eyes faded. He glanced past her, toward the nightstand littered with chocolate wrappers—gold and black, the Belgian crest from last night's diplomatic reception catching the light.

"I saw what you did to the dessert table," his voice full of destained. "The truffles. The fountain."

"The food was the only decent thing about that crowd of self-congratulating diplomats," she fired back like a cannon ball.

"Lolita, you're not sticking to your diet."

She laughed—dry and sharp. "You don't get to lecture me about health. Not after you left Desmond in charge."

"Lolita, you were too young to be on your own."

"I was twelve," she snapped. "And Desmond never respected my space. Never listened when I said no."

"He's from Anua, his culture is different-"

"I don't give a damn where he's from," she cut in. "You left me with him like I was a diplomatic favour, not a daughter."

Silence stretched between them, tense and bitter.

James looked away. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "There's something I need to tell you," he said. "I want to tell you and Ethan. When the time is right."

"Why drag Ethan into it?" Lolita's voice sharpened. "So you'll have someone there to hold your hand?"

James didn't answer.

"Or is it just easier with your perfect son nodding along like he understands everything?"

Still nothing.

"Say something," she snapped.

He looked up. His face was pale. His breath was shallow.

"I don't have the strength to fight with you anymore," he said, voice barely audible. "I'm not who I was. And I'm running out of time."

She stared at him, stunned by the honesty in his tone—but not enough to admit it aloud.

He watched her for a long moment.

"I want better for you," he said, gently now. "That's all I've ever wanted. I want you to live better than I did. Be more than what they made me into."

"Mistakes?" Lolita's eyes narrowed. "Like ignoring me? I don't need your advice."

She turned and slammed the door. The sound echoed down the grand hallway—sharp, final, unforgiving.

James didn't move. The silence pressed in around him, thick and familiar.

Lolita was four when Charlotte died. Four years old, standing barefoot in the hallway, asking why her mother wouldn't wake up. The overdose had been quiet. The aftermath wasn't.

He'd spent years trying to shield Lolita from that shadow. Now she wore it like silk—pink, indulgent, defiant.

James exhaled slowly, the ache in his ribs flaring. He turned away from the door, walking down the corridor with slow, deliberate steps.

She doesn't see it, he thought. Not yet. But she's becoming her.

The wrappers on the nightstand; her excuses and recklessness, too familiar.

And he was running out of time to stop it.