Mariana's Pov
I climb the stairs, tray balanced in my hand. The aroma of freshly baked cookies wafts up into my nostrils, sweet and inviting.
I've added a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, his favorite. Reaching the door to my father in-law’s private office, I knock once, gentle.
"Are you in there, father?" I call out.
“Come,” his commanding, gruff voice echo.
I twist the door knob and the door creaks open. I peek my head through the small space, smiling.
My father in-law looks up from the documents scattered across his lap, his fingers quickly adjusting the reading glasses perched on his nose.
"Ah, Mariana. Come in, child," he says, his voice warm.
I enter, tray held high, and approach the couch.
"Thought you might need a break," I explain, setting the tray down.
His eyes
