Fallon
The study smelled like leather and scotch.
It was a room built for power — dark wood, sleek lines, shelves lined with books that no one had touched in years. My father’s domain. His throne.
The door clicked shut behind me, and just like that, the air grew heavier.
He moved to his desk, slow and deliberate, every step calculated. The glass of scotch he lifted met the light with a quiet clink, and the sound of his silence was louder than any raised voice could’ve been.
“Sit,” he said finally.
I stayed standing.
“I hope you’re taking this seriously, Fallon.”
My pulse kicked up, but I kept my face carefully neutral. I knew better than to show weakness in this room.
“This?” I asked, arms crossed tight. “What exactly are we talking about?”
His eyes lifted to mine — cool and unre
