As I stand here, in the parlor, looking at them, I feel the anger, sadness, and frustration inside of me churning, threatening to spill over. “You were supposed to stay outside,” Marcel’s voice is a steady reprimand. Despite his obvious disapproval, he sets his glass down with a calmness—a testament to his control beneath the mask of his own frustrations. I’m fighting to swallow the knot in my throat, holding back the tears that so desperately want to build in my eyes, but my voice betrays me, quavering slightly as I muster the courage to speak, “I’d like to get back to work.” “You’re not working tonight,” Marcel responds, his voice firm as he wears the stoic look on his face. I stare at him, the bridge of my nose stinging, and I can’t help but lash out, “Why? So you have a reason to keep me here longer?” My raw and unfiltered accusation hangs in the air, and though he tries to keep up with the facade of his stoicism, his eyes betray him. He k
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