Agatha
I stood before my father’s heavy brown desk, its polished wood reflecting the faint glow of the lamp. My hands were clasped neatly behind my back, but the tension in my shoulders was deliberate and controlled. My toes pressed into my shoes, a grounding habit I had perfected over the years when masking my emotions.
“Dad, can I speak with you?” I asked, letting my tone be just soft enough to pass as tentative.
“I’m listening. I don’t have much time to spare.” His voice was clipped, his eyes still glued to the chaos of documents sprawled across his desk.
Of course. Alvin Branson never looked up unless a deal was about to fall apart or a threat was at his throat. His own daughter rarely ranked that high. But at least I did better than Mia ever could in his books.
I studied him from
