Up on the raised dais, standing beside a ridiculous five-tiered retirement cake, was my father.

His hand was wrapped loosely around a heavy crystal tumbler of twenty-year-old bourbon.

His face was a mask of smooth, patrician control.

He had that specific, terrifying handsomeness of a powerful man who genuinely believes his silence alone can rewrite history.

“Evelyn,” he commanded, his voice as cold and flat as a winter lake.

“Leave these premises immediately, before you embarrass this family any further.”