Aaron
The clock ticks like a metronome of doom, each second louder and more grating than the last. I pace my room, unable to stay still, the tension in my chest so tight I feel like I might snap in half. The day has been an unrelenting mess, but I know it isn’t over. Not by a long shot. Tomorrow’s dinner looms over me, a dark cloud threatening to burst.
Dinner with the Marchers.
I drag a hand through my hair, tugging slightly at the roots. It’s a nervous habit I’ve picked up lately—one of many. My father had delivered the news this afternoon with his signature calmness, the kind that leaves no room for debate.
“We’ll be dining with the Marchers tomorrow,” he’d said, his tone cool but absolute.
I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. Not with Frederick Wilburn. When he speaks, there’s no room for
