Third Person's POV
After Trista hung up the phone, she deflated like a popped balloon, collapsing onto the long couch.
A faint wisp of that green-apple, childish scent lingered around her scent gland, dissipating quickly, carrying the sourness of boredom and disappointment.
Just then, Archer returned.
The light from the electric fireplace in the living room danced on his jacket. He glanced at his daughter's expression. "What's wrong?"
"I called Mom and asked her to come back to be with me. She said she had plans." She buried her small, delicate face into a throw pillow, her voice muffled. "Mommy is really busy lately."
Archer hummed, sitting down on the neighboring sofa. He undid his cuff links and picked up his phone to check messages.
He kept his aura extremely muted, maintaining
