Stopping near the entrance, I stepped out and handed my car keys to one of my father’s suited men standing nearby.
“Park it properly,” I said.
He nodded silently and slid behind the wheel, driving off without a word.
I was already forty-five minutes late. On purpose. And honestly, I didn’t give a single damn.
The idea of sitting around a polished dining table, making small talk with people who couldn’t care less whether I lived or died, wasn’t exactly my idea of a pleasant evening. If anything, I could already list ten better ways to spend my time—none of which involved pretending to be part of a family I no longer felt connected to.
The moment I stepped into the room, my father’s voice filled the space.
“You’re late,” he said flatly, without even turning fully to face me.
Not surpr
