“Don’t stand there hovering like a—a—” Sir’s lips were in a tight line. “Put that goddamned case down and sit.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Don’t call me that!”
I felt as if he’d struck me. I sank down onto a chair, my laptop on the floor beside me, and sat, stiff-backed. What a fool I was to think, after all these years, Sir could have come to care for me.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I had you come home.” He glowered at me from over the rim of his glass.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I have a marriage arranged for you.”
“M-marriage? But this is 2019, not 1819.”
“How like you to state the obvious,” he sneered.
“I can’t…” I swallowed, feeling the blood leave my face. This was the worst of all possible times to confess my s****l orientation, but it seemed I had no choice. “Sir, I…” I took a breath and then
