𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐢. time, it seems, is inevitable.

( full dialogue in italics is assumed to be spoken in dutch. i felt it would be easier this way for you readers. )

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

  The hand on her shoulder burns, though, she's not sure why she's surprised by it anymore. It's almost like claiming she was surprised when her father left. Was she heartbroken when he'd left? Obviously. He was the first ( and not the last ) to break her heart. Did she feel guilty about it? Well, it was her fault after all, so by all means she felt that was justifiable. But was she surprised? Not in the slightest, she'd seen it coming for months leading up to it. She'd noticed the remorseful smiles he gave her mother when he thought no one was looking. Or the way the twinkle in his eyes eventually dulled until there was nothing left. And then those mornings she'd found him sleeping on the couch that seemed to happen more often than not. She wasn't all that surprised that he had left, honestly, he was a coward who wouldn't defend himself. And anyway, she'd been waiting for the trigger to her mothers downfall for months.

But the hand against her shoulder feeling like it's melting her skin shouldn't surprise her after all these years. Even still, she wishes she could shrug it off or even run away from the grip. Slip through the corridors with tears streaming down her face and screaming through all the inconveniences that's ever happened to her for some sort of justice. But she can't, she knows thats. There's an image, a reputation to be upheld. And she thinks death at the hand ( quite literally, though, and isn't that just sad? ) against her shoulder isn't worth the things that she wants. Not when its the very thing that she deserves. So instead she sits in the chair and remains impassive, like her bones don't feel as if they could explode from the heat, or like she isn't worried that when the hand does lift her skin won't follow like melted wax. Bite the bullet, they say, and bite the bullet she will.

"Mrs Vinke, it's a pleasure to meet you." An older man ( undoubtedly Sophia's father, she's a carbon copy of him ) walks into the office with a smile all too wide, holding his hand out.

Alida smiles ( no matter how false it feels on her face ) and reluctantly reaches a hand out, a tinge of venom in her voice, "Miss Vinke, if you would."

"Oh..." He sheepishly grins, and Lavinia can see the faintest trace of a blush against his cheeks. "My apologies, Miss Vinke, I had no idea."

"It's quite alright. It happens, does it not?" Alida hollowly laughs, smoothes her hand over Lavinia's stray flyaways. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr...?"

"Wilson." He supplies. "Issac Wilson."

"Alida Vinke. Of course, you already knew that."

"One must come prepared, shall they not?"