STELLA
The ride home is quiet, except for the faint clicking of Papa’s pen as he signs something on his tablet.
I lean my head against the cold glass, watching the blur of streetlights streak by.
“You could at least pretend to look miserable,” he says without looking up.
“I thought I was,” I reply. “Guess I need to work on my performance.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile—Papa doesn’t do those—but something dangerously close. “You’ll adjust”. I don't say anything, because that would be pointless.
By the time we pull into the driveway, my feet are killing me, my cheeks hurt from fake-smiling, and I’m one bad comment away from kicking off these heels in the foyer and letting them trip whoever finds them.
Marina’s already waiting by the door. “How was it?” she asks brightly, taking my
