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“No, Mum. Don’t pearl-clutch now. You’ve been sitting there letting him say it.”

Dad stands.

Not dramatically.

He simply stands.

“I want what is best for you. For all of us.”

“No, you want a heir. That’s what you want.”

“I want you to raise the next generation, yes.”

I push my chair back so fast it scrapes the polished floor.

“Then buy a bloody monarchy, or adopt a couple of orphans.”

“Alice Rose,” he says. “Enough!”

The full name.

The command.

It used to work, but it doesn’t tonight.

Maybe because of the paintings I laid my soul bare on. Maybe because the black lines finally bent. Maybe because Jack Reid’s nonchalance has taken a dump on my obedience, or Bryce Maddocks has reminded me what longing feels like when I stop being polite and start being alive again.

“I’m leaving,” I tell my parents.

Mum rises halfway. “Darling, please don’t go like this.”

I have nothing but a scoff for her.

“How would you like me to go? Gracefully? Quietly? With a signed agreement to produce the next Parker heir before we’re done with pudding?”

Dad’s eyes flash.

Good.

Let them.

“You will regret this tone,” he says. “It’s not becoming of a woman like you. You’ve had everything. Now it’s time you gave something back.”

“Regret this tone? Whatever, Dad. What I regret is showing up to hear this bullshit. It’s disgusting.”

I walk out before he can reply. If he says one more word, I’ll either scream or cry, and I refuse to give him either.

Helen appears in the hall with my coat, face carefully blank. Bless her. She’s worked here long enough to know when the Parker temperature has risen to boiling level.

“Thank you,” I say, voice shaking.

“Goodnight, Alice.”

The air outside hits me, cold and clean. I make it down the steps before the tears come.

These aren’t pretty tears. Not poignant, cinematic tears. They’re angry ones. Hot and humiliating, spilling down my cheeks as I walk too fast with blurry vision.

Christopher Otley. Fucking great.