Chapter 215
Karina sighed dramatically, tapping a manicured nail against her mug. “You know, I am right here.”
I ignored her again.
“She won’t be staying here,” I said flatly.
My father’s gaze met mine, “This is still my house, Kester.”
Silence.
Long, thick silence.
And then, he leaned back as if the conversation was already over. And with a casual sip of
his coffee, he said the words that made my blood run hot.
“And Karina is also my daughter.”
The laugh that had been bubbling under my skin finally slipped out.
Dark. Amused. Poisoned at the edges.
I pushed off the chair, straightening to my full height, my gaze sweeping over him with something between pity and disbelief.
“You really are a fool, old man.‘
***
My father didn’t have an ounce of an idea of what was coming for his beloved daughter. I had all it takes to get her out of this house. I could have snapped my fingers and had her dragged out before she even had the chance to finish her pathetic little drink.
But, no. Where is the fun there?
They had just made things easier for me. Brought my plans right to my doorstep, wrapped in the golden opportunity of her own weaknesses.
And Karina?
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She was too blinded by arrogance, too drenched in self–importance, to see the noose tightening around her neck.
I strode to the wine bar where I knew Karina would be at the moment. There was just a thin line separating her from being an actual drunk.
Karina had a relationship with alcohol–one that teetered on the edge of devotion and
destruction.
Aha! There she was. Drowning in a bottle of Vodka.
Her posture was careless, shoulders slouched, legs crossed as if she were some queen in
exile.
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I ignored her existence and reached for the bar, placing the wine I had in hand on the
shelve, a little secluded from where other varieties were lined up.
The bottle stood tall, beautiful, and distinct. Eye–catching and Inviting. Just like a trap
should be.
I knew she was watching me.
Karina had never been the silent type. She wouldn’t hesitate to spill it if she had
something to say–and she always had something to say.
So when her voice finally filtered through the thick, alcohol–soaked air, I wasn’t surprised.
“Oh…” she mused, tilting her head slightly, her gaze flicking between me and the bottle I
had just set down. “Old habit never dies, huh?”
I didn’t respond.
Didn’t even glance at her.
She took it as an invitation to keep talking.
“Tell me… Does alcohol now have an effect on you? Because, the last I remember, you
could gulp down an entire bottle of whisky without even as much as feeling tipsy,” She chuckled, swirling the bottle in her hand.
I still ignored her, watching her like the pathetic little thing she was. She looked like one
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with a lot of issues. Not that I care.
“Oh. I recall… Rehab…” She mused and let out a loud laugh that grated on my nerves. But
I’d like to see how much longer she can hold that joke.
I reached for the stem of a wine glass and ran my fingers along its delicate curve before letting it go just as carelessly. Then, finally, I turned to her.
My expression was blank. Voice colder than the bottle sweating between her fingers.
“Don’t lay your filthy hands on my wine.”
She wanted to protest, as usual, but I turned without another word and headed for the door, my mind already detaching from the scene behind me.
I had better things to do.
More pressing matters to attend to.
Like the man waiting in my basement.
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