DARIAN
It’s been weeks since that conversation with my father.
Weeks since he stood in my room and reminded me, again, that my life isn’t mine.
Since then, I’ve done what was expected of me.
I smiled in public. Took Adira to the autumn gala. Held her hand through the pack walk last weekend. She wore red, of course. The color of power. Of union. Of bloodlines.
She kissed me on the cheek in front of the pack members, and I let her.
The moment was captured, posted, shared across our territories. My father showed it to me the next morning over breakfast with the smug satisfaction of a man who believes his plan is unfolding perfectly.
“You’re making me proud, son,” he said.
I didn’t respond.
I haven’t responded to much lately.
The weight of pretending is a quiet kind of violence. One
