Sylvia's father sat in the backseat. His posture was perfect—imposing even when sitting still, his salt and pepper hair gleaming.
"What?" she asked sharply, refusing to play polite.
"I need to talk to you," he said. "Father to daughter."
"I'm not interested."
Tom's lips pressed into a thin line. "Syl," he said softly, "don't make me beg. I am still your father."
Sylvia sighed and crossed her arms, her patience hanging by a thread. "Fine," she said finally. "What do you want?"
"Get in the car. Come on."
She exhaled heavily and tugged the car door open. She slid into the seat beside him, her body angled just slightly away, creating that invisible barrier that said you don't get to control me anymore.
Tom leaned forward, tapping twice on the back of the driver's seat. "Go," he instructed curtly. The driver gave a silent nod and eased the car smoothly away from the curb.
"Where are we going?" Sylvia asked, glancing at her father from the corner of her eye.
