Arabella sat on the edge of the sofa, the city skyline stretching out before her. The soft hum of the city was barely noticeable, a background to the storm swirling in her mind. Her fingers drummed absently on the armrest as her thoughts circled back to the call from her father. She had expected his wrath, but the conversation hadn’t gone the way she anticipated.
The phone on the coffee table buzzed, breaking her out of her reverie. The caller ID read Father.
Her heart skipped a beat. This was it—the fallout had arrived.
Arabella took a steadying breath and answered. “Father,” she greeted, trying to keep her voice neutral.
“Arabella,” came Mr. Whitmore’s cold voice, sending a shiver down her spine. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I’ve made my decision,” she replied, standing
