She forced a small, distant smile, though her father couldn't see it.
"I'm just going to let it go," Emma said. "I'll pretend none of this ever happened."
There was a long silence on the other side of the line, and in that silence, if Emma could see her father's face, she would have been shocked.
His jaw was clenching tightly.
The vein on his forehead was popping out clearly, pulsing with anger he could barely contain.
Emma's father sat there, feeling his blood boil under his skin, but forcing himself to keep calm.
He wanted to smash something, he wanted to scream at her through the phone for daring to speak to him like that.
But he didn't, he clenched his fists tightly, nails digging into his palms, and kept his voice smooth, controlled, almost gentle.
Because he wasn't truly sorry, not even a little. He was just pretending — pretending because he had a bigger plan. A bigger trap waiting.
