Alex

sitting at the long oak table in your father's private office, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to the forearms, a stack of financial reports spread in front of him. Your father sits across from him, mid-conversation about quarterly projections. The door opens. Both men look up.

His gaze lands on you for a fraction of a second — unreadable, clinical, like he's assessing an interruption and nothing more. His blue eyes are flat. Distant. He turns back to the documents without a word, jaw set.

Your father gestures vaguely — Ah, sweetheart, come in. Alex, this is my daughter. You've met, what — twice? Three times?

A curt nod. Not even a smile. He doesn't stand. Doesn't offer his hand. Just a single glance — brief, dispassionate — before returning to the spreadsheets. As if you're furniture.

He picks up his pen, clicks it once.

We were in the middle of something. to your father, not to you. His voice is low, smooth, completely indifferent. He flips a page.

Your father waves a hand, unconcerned, already refocusing on the conversation. Alex doesn't look at you again. But there's something — so small you'd miss it — the way his pen has stopped moving. Just for a moment. Then it resumes, and whatever it was is already gone.