Enzo's pov
I needed to talk to my father. The weight of decisions pressed down on me, but every time I reached out, he was too busy. The frustration in me was building, and I could feel it clawing at my insides. I wasn't sure when it had started, but lately, patience seemed to be slipping away from me. It was as if the more I needed answers, the harder it was to wait for them.
The next day, I tried again. I called him at a different time, thinking maybe I'd catch him when he wasn't occupied. Instead, his PA answered again. "He's busy today too," came the calm, rehearsed reply. I clenched my fist, my nails digging into my palm. It wasn't just anger at my father for being unavailable, but anger at myself. How could I not manage something as simple as a conversation with my own father?
