Her face falls like a curtain dropping. The instant I say the words, her whole body shifts—subtle, but I feel it. She leans away from me, eyes sharpening with distrust. And anger. Not fear. Not hesitation. No, this is defiance. “What? No,” she blurts quickly, voice flat and resistant. But it’s too late. She’s already standing in front of my father. “Dad, meet Danika. My sub,” I say, my tone serious, anchoring. Claiming. “Danika, meet Mark—my dad.” There’s a long pause. Her body stiffens. Her hand hesitates before slowly extending, like it costs her something to offer it. “Nice to meet you,” she says. But her tone? It screams anything but. My dad, ever the polished diplomat, takes her hand and gives it a firm shake. He doesn’t miss a beat. “Danika. Beautiful name,” he says easily. “My son treating you well?” The question catches her off guard. I watch it ripple through her posture—her brows twitch, her lips part slightly, and for a second, she looks like she’s struggling to fi
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