Third person's POV
“Your father’s downstairs,” Vivian, Escola's mother called, her voice filtering through the door with the urgency of a whisper and the weight of a warning.
Escola groaned. Of course she knew her father wasn’t there to catch up. He never came for dinner, never for birthdays, his appearances were never about her. They were always for his image. For his politics.
He doesn’t care about her, she was the scandalous secret he claimed would ruin him. Now, years later, apparently she was back on the chessboard to move around.
"Come on, Escola,” Vivian knocked again, more insistent this time.
So she stood up. Depressingly, but she had no choice.
Thursday nights were supposed to be hers: a quiet routine of self‑care and Netflix. Now that routine was demolished by her father.
Escola walked out of her room, stepping into the dim hallway. The polished marble floor reflected the golden glow of hallway lamps.
Her mother was waiting at the by of the stairs. She looked regal as ever
