At eighteen, she left for university in London. Her father was proud—prouder than she’d ever seen him. “My clever girl,” he said, kissing her forehead. His lips were dry. “You’ll go far.”
He looked up. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—recognition, then fear. Because he saw it now, didn’t he? The girl who listened. The girl who remembered. nikita von james
“Papa,” she said.