The flowers were beautiful, and they made me want to be sick. His face, usually a mask of cool charm, was arranged into an expression of heavy sorrow. It didn't reach his eyes.
“Millicent,” he said, his voice soft, too soft. “I couldn’t sleep. I had to come. I am… so deeply sorry for what happened.”
The apology hung in the air, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t an apology; it was a claim, a demonstration of power. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness; he was showing me he could cross any line, commit any act, and still have the audacity to show up at my home bearing flowers.
I couldn’t speak. The horror of the previous day, the fear for Pascal, the sheer violation of his presence here, now, stole my breath. And specifically, the fear of my father.
A cold ran through me. What if my father tr
