DEBORAH'S POV
I had told Elijah I was going to see my father, but I'd planned a quiet morning at the salon. A few hours of peace. Some pampering. Maybe even a scalp massage strong enough to unknot the tension living in my shoulders.
My phone buzzed as I finished my tea. It was one of my father's assistant.
"Mrs. Rossi? Your father requests your presence immediately."
No pleasantries. Not even a "good morning." Just a demand, as always.
The tires of my Bentley crunched along the circular driveway of Sutton Manor. Those white columns loomed overhead, too tall, too perfect, obscenely symmetrical. Twin fountains sprayed water in choreographed arcs, the sound hollow against marble basins. Nothing here ever changed. Nothing was allowed to—not the staff, not the décor, not even the smell. That sterile blend of polished wood and power.
I handed my keys to Wilson, who'd been parking cars here since before I was born. "He's in the lounge," he murmured, not meeting my eyes.
