"Then just tell Sharona to call the wedding off." She stood her ground, her spine straight, her chin tilted up in defiance. "If you really want peace, if you really love me, then prove it."
Tom didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached for the bottle of whiskey. He poured another measure into his glass, the soft glug of liquid the only sound between them. Then, with a faint smirk, he poured a second glass — hers. He slid the glass toward her.
"What are you doing?" Sylvia tensed. The glass between them glimmered. Her fingers twitched in her lap, her spine straight as a board. She knew that look in her father's eyes — the calm, deliberate expression that meant he was already ten steps ahead, orchestrating every word, every gesture.
"Sharing a moment with my daughter," Tom replied smoothly. He tilted the glass slightly, watching the light ripple through the whiskey. "Come on, sweetheart. Just like old times."
