The hour hand shows five minutes past eight. I shift nervously and glance at the doorknob of my father’s office.

Every day at a quarter to eight, my father comes to the kitchen, sits at the head of the table, opens the newspaper, and starts planning our day.

But today?

Something’s wrong. This isn’t like him.

My father. A workaholic and a perfectionist. The man who plans everything down to the last detail. Down to the last second. And forgot?

Everything must go according to his plan. And if it doesn’t, he’s not afraid to use violence, yelling, and harsh punishments.

This situation makes me nervous.

He didn’t come to the kitchen. He didn’t mention any change in his schedule or the fact that he hadn’t eaten breakfast today.

He just didn’t come.

Is he hurt?

What if he’s lying on the floor of his office in pain and can’t call for help?

NO!

I shake my head and take a deep breath.

This is my father we’re talking about. The mighty alpha. I’m sure he can handle it.

I glance at the brass handle on the dark oak door. The air thickens around me. It’s like tar. Thick. Oily. I can almost taste it on my tongue.

I close my eyes for a moment.

The ticking of a baroque clock echoes down the long corridor. The wind outside the windows whistles through the cracks, sounding like a wounded animal.

I shift.

Cold sweat runs down my neck and soaks into the collar of my white shirt.

I need to calm down.

I lick my dry lips and walk to the door. With a shaky hand, I adjust the knot of my tie and brush an invisible speck from my jacket sleeve.

My hand stops just a few inches from the door. An invisible force of fear grips my wrist and keeps me from moving.

Don’t think I don’t want to walk into that office and make sure my father is perfectly fine.

But...

Every disturbance is like a spark that ignites into tremendous heat - no matter what or who disturbed him.

I’m sure that the moment I step into the study, ice-cold blue eyes will pierce straight through me. Eyes full of arrogance and hatred.

Just thinking about it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I run my fingers over the scar on my left temple - a permanent reminder of a mistake I made years ago. Young, indiscreet, and overly enthusiastic.

The sad thing is, my father regretted the broken ashtray more than his bleeding son.

And for what?

A desperate desire for recognition.

Now I have a piece of paper in my drawer - full of A’s, stained with my blood - that ended up being a dark reminder of what I truly meant to my father.

My eyes slide to the watch on my left wrist. I must...

I bang on the door with a few firm knocks, reach for the handle, and push. Father never says “further” or “enter.” I’ll know whether I’m welcome the moment my feet cross the threshold.

The door swings open with a soft creak, and at that very moment, cigarette smoke billows out of the room. Sweet. Heavy.

It settles in my nose, in my eyes, under my skin.

I take a deep breath.

A mistake.

The smoke burns in my lungs like hot steel. It pulls me back into memories I’d rather forget.

I close my eyes.

I have to fight back.

I open them and clench my hand into a fist. My fingers dig into my palm. It burns - but the pain keeps me grounded. It reminds me that I’m here.

With quiet apology, I step into the room - a malachite carpet beneath my feet, a large bookcase lining one wall, and a heavy oak desk standing like a fortress in the center.

Cigar smoke coils around me, thick and suffocating, like a beast ready to devour.
I have no choice but to approach my father’s desk, chasing the ghost of routine.

A soft click cuts through the air - my father tapping the ashes off his cigar. I know that sound too well.

I take another breath and another step forward.

I stumble into a leather chair by the coffee table, grip it, and press my fingers into the soft upholstery.

Blue eyes gleam through the haze, and the tip of the cigar glows. It rises, flares, and a fresh cloud of dense gray smoke rolls outward.

My father sets the cigar down.

I tremble.

Though it’s mid - July, the room feels cold.

I swallow hard and step closer.

Each step is heavier than the last - my legs like lead, breath shallow, heart racing.

“You’ve come,” he murmurs. No emotion. Just a fact.

“I was worried about you,” I reply just as softly. I lower my gaze. Just looking at his face makes my knees weak and my fingertips tingle.

He glances at me - unreadable, indifferent.

He rises.

The thick smoke swirls around him, catching the strip of sunlight like eerie shadows made flesh.

I instinctively step back.

My hip knocks against a chair and I jump, like a frightened cat.

My throat tightens. God, I’m such a coward. Such a pathetic wimp.

“Frey,” he spits my name like poison.

I flinch. Something is wrong.

He steps around the desk with deliberate force, the smoke trailing him like a ghostly veil.
Towering, broad-shouldered, he comes to stand in front of me.

He looks down at me. Contempt in his gaze. Hatred.

I gasp.

I watch his every move with wide eyes.

My father is a tall man - broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, his bearing powerful.

Raven-black hair now streaked with silver frames a square face and broad chin, marked by a neatly trimmed beard. Between narrow, piercing eyes sits an eagle-like nose. Beneath it, thin, pale lips.

He adjusts the cuff of his black jacket and clicks his tongue.