David stopped laughing. He looked at me with cold, annoyed eyes. “Anna, don’t be dramatic. Mark is telling us about the Henderson case. Don’t interrupt.”
“But David…”
“Just bring the sauce, honey,” he said, turning back to Mark. “Sorry, man. She gets a little hormonal with the pregnancy.”
Mark chuckled uncomfortably. “No worries, dude. Women, right?”
A tear burned the corner of my eye. I returned to the kitchen.
I was William Thorne’s daughter. I grew up in a library lined with first-edition law books.
I attended debutante balls in D.C. I played chess with Supreme Court justices in my living room.
But David didn’t know. Sylvia didn’t know.
When I met David, I was rebellious. I wanted to escape the suffocating pressure of my father’s legacy.
I wanted to be loved for me, not my last name. So I told David I was estranged from my family. I told him my father was a retired clerk in Florida.
