Rebecca
I stand by the large picture window in my parents' stately home, absently tracing the diamond pattern of the leaded glass with my manicured fingernail. Behind me, I can feel my father's gaze—stern, disappointed—pressing into my back. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. My father's office has always smelled faintly of old books, polished leather, and his cologne, a place where serious, sober conversations happen. I draw in a breath and turn around to face him, my stomach twisting at the hard set of his jaw. My mother stands slightly behind him, arms folded, her expression soft but tinged with worry.
