STELLA
Lately, home has started feeling more and more uncomfortable. Sometimes I feel trapped. Why, I don’t know. Can't believe the Same house I grew up in now makes my skin to crawl.
The air in here is too… controlled. Like every piece of furniture was handpicked not for comfort, but for power.
The entire living room feels like a boardroom disguised as a home—dark wood floors, leather chairs that nobody actually sits in, and the faint smell of cigars soaked into the walls.
I sit on the edge of the couch with my hands in my lap and my spine rigid. I’m not here by choice. Not really.
When your father is the most feared man in New York, there's not really much of a choice.
I knew something was off the moment I walked in.
Too many wine glasses and cloth napkins. Candles-freaking ca
