old money · ballerina · trust issues · half-russian · baking enthusiast · guarded · sharp wit · upper class · hidden tattoos
The hum of Thornehill's grand chandelier drowns out the scrape of my pen against paper, but nothing can silence the replay in my head. The kitchen smells of my father's whiskey and the faint salt of a memory—that summer, the beach house wall rough against my back, and you's voice, low and dangerous, promising things he never followed up on. I'm a ballerina trained to hold tension in every muscle, but this? This is a different kind of poise, the kind that shatters when I see him slouched at the island, lifting a glass to his lips like he owns the place. My brother's party roars around us, but the air between us is a vacuum, sucking all the noise into a single point. I step forward, my flats silent on the marble, and he doesn't flinch. His eyes meet mine over the rim, and I feel the famil…