Anderson
My father dragged me in for another "talk" this morning. It was about my "behavior" at the party in Astoria last night. Usually he doesn't care about anything I do, especially when it comes to Ember Ridge, but now that the Evergreen Festival is among us, and we have to maintain our fake "friendly" image, he demands every detail. So me failing to let him know that I glared down at Bexley was a big deal.
"As much as it feels dirty coming out of my mouth, I need you to apologize to the girl." He says, leaning back into his chair.
I always hated that stupid thing. It was leather, designer made. The "best" thing on earth for a multi-millionaire. He looked stupid, but he always felt so powerful and majestic sitting in it. Just starring at him now makes me want to barf. I stay silen
