The pack house loomed ahead of me like it was waiting.
Not welcoming.
Not hostile.
Watching.
The massive doors opened at my approach, servants bowing and stepping aside, their movements precise, rehearsed.
The echo of my steps followed me inside, every sound amplified in the cavernous hall.
And there he was.
My father stood at the base of the stairs, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and immovable.
He wasn't dressed formally tonight as usual and yet there there was something colder about him in simple attire.
He didn't look pleased.
My stomach tightened.
And I felt like a girl who was about to reprimanded by her parent
"Father," I greeted quietly.
"Jasmine," he replied, voice even. Polite. Controlled.
A pause stretched between us, thick and deliberate.
Then he spoke.
"I was informed you were upset at one of the massage workers today." He said in a cool voice.
The words landed softly, but they carried weight.
