[Wanda].
I could barely stomach what I was eating.
Every bite felt like sandpaper in my throat, but I didn't dare excuse myself, not with my father sitting there, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever.
So I deliberately ate slowly, pretending to chew when all I wanted to do was throw the entire plate against the wall.
But the moment his knife and fork hit the plate, signalling he was done, I stopped pretending.
He stood, gave me a single glance—one of those silent warnings, and left the room without a word.
The second he was gone, I dropped my cutlery, grabbed my napkin, and spat the meat into it, my stomach twisting.
The napkin crumpled easily in my hand, but I slammed it down on the table anyway, my chest rising and falling with the effort to keep myself from screaming.
I had never felt this angry, not even the times I wished to see Draven's face in my dreams and got nothing.
