My father never called for me.
Not unless it was to scold me for something I didn't do, or to remind me of my place in this house—silent, forgotten, tolerated but never truly wanted.
So when the maid knocked on my door, breathless and wide-eyed, saying "Your father is asking for you", I felt something inside me shift.
Fear.
Not the kind that made your hands tremble, but the kind that crawled up your spine like ice. Slow. Cold. Unshakable.
I barely noticed myself moving, my fingers tightening around my phone as I dialed the only person who could make sense of my panic.
Nina answered after two rings. "What's wrong?"
I hadn't even spoken yet, but she knew,I would never call her during her shift it it wasn't an emergency. She always knows.
"I…" My voice faltered. I swallowed, tried again. "My father. He—he asked for me."
A beat of silence. Then, "And?"
I glanced at the door, as if expecting someone to barge in. "And I don't know why. He never asks for me."
Another silence, longer this time.
Then Nina, in a voice edged with something like unease: "Alina… be careful."
I didn't move right away. Instead, I sat there, gripping my phone, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Nina's voice pulled me back. "Alina?"
I let out a slow breath. "I'll call you back."
"Text me if anything feels off."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me, then ended the call.
The hallway felt longer than usual as I made my way downstairs. My father's study door was slightly ajar, the golden glow of his desk lamp spilling into the dim corridor.
I knocked once. No answer.
Twice.
"Come in."
His voice was smooth, controlled. Too controlled.
I pushed the door open, stepping inside.
He was seated behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers interlocked, gaze unreadable. And in front of him, placed neatly on the polished wood, was a velvet box.
A gift.
For me.
I hesitated at the threshold. "You… wanted to see me?"
His lips curved slightly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Sit."
I did.
He slid the box toward me. "This is for you."
I stared at it, then at him. "Why?"
A flicker of something—regret? No. Something else. "Because you are my daughter."
The answer felt wrong. Off. But my hands moved on their own, fingers brushing over the soft velvet before I slowly lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled against dark silk, was a delicate gold bracelet. Intricate. Beautiful.
Expensive.
Too expensive for a man who never spent a dime on me.
I swallowed. "What's this for?"
My father leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "We would discuss everything at the family meeting."
My stomach twisted.
He never called family meetings.
And suddenly, I knew—whatever this was, it wasn't a gift.
It was a warning.
I shut the door to my room, pressing my back against it as I clutched the bracelet in my palm. It felt too heavy in my palm.
My father had never given me anything—at least, not willingly. Not without a reason.
I turned the bracelet over in my hands, my heart pounding. Why now? Why today?
I grabbed my phone and dialed Nina. She picked up on the first ring. "Talk to me."
I swallowed hard. "He called for a family meeting,It's not just the meeting. He gave me a gift."
A pause. Then, "What?"
"A bracelet." I glanced down at it again, as if it would suddenly explain itself. "A real one. Gold. Expensive."
Nina let out a slow breath. "That's not normal."
"I know."
"And he said nothing else?"
"Just that we'd talk at the meeting."
The silence stretched between us. I could hear Nina thinking, piecing things together like she always did. Then, finally—
"Alina, I don't like this."
I let out a humorless laugh. "Neither do I."
"You need to be careful. It feels like he's about to do something."
I bit my lip. That was the part that scared me most.
Because I could feel it too.
Something was coming.
And I wasn't sure I was ready for it.
Dinner was set on the long dining table, but no one was eating. Not really. The clinking of cutlery against plates was just a background noise to the hushed whispers and pointed glances that sent unease creeping up my spine.
My stepsister, Lillian, smirked as she picked at her food. "I still can't believe it," she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.
Her sister, Irene, giggled. "I know. Who would've thought she'd be the one?"
The one?
I stiffened. My grip on my fork tightened.
They had been looking at me strangely the entire evening, exchanging amused glances every time my father's name was mentioned. And now this.
I glanced at my stepmother, hoping for any sign that I was imagining things. But she was too busy sipping her wine, her eyes flicking toward me with something that almost looked like… pity? No. Satisfaction.
My stomach twisted.
Something was wrong.
Before I could open my mouth to ask what, the doors swung open, and my father walked in.
The room fell silent.
His presence commanded it.
He took his seat at the head of the table, adjusting his cufflinks as if this were just another ordinary evening. Then, clearing his throat, he finally spoke.
"Alina," my father said, his voice calm. "You are to be married this weekend."
The words didn't make sense at first. My ears heard them, but my brain refused to process them.
I just… sat there.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
I felt my lips part, but no words came. My throat burned, my chest tightened.
I forced myself to swallow, to breathe, to make sense of what was happening. But my father's face remained unreadable, his posture relaxed as if he had just announced the weather.
Across the table, my stepmother reached for her wine again, unbothered.
Lillian and Irene whispered between themselves, throwing me quick glances like I was something amusing to watch.
My fingers trembled as I clutched my dress. "Dad…" My voice cracked.
He didn't react.
I swallowed hard. "You… you're joking, right?" I let out a shaky laugh, but the weight in my chest told me I already knew the answer.
Still, I waited—hoped—for him to correct himself.
He didn't.