Severed Ties

Isobel

Alara

Somehow I had ended up alone with my father, in his rather large and imposing office. After a long conversation with Ma which I had needed more than anything in the world, Vincent Torres had sternly announced that he needed to talk to me alone.

He had glared particularly hard at Cameron, somehow enunciating the word to be pointed in his direction. And in typical Grayson fashion, he had returned the glare with one of his own.

I wanted to laugh but I swallowed it down when I saw the look on my father's face, whatever this conversation was going to be about, I knew it would be heavy.

The door had shut softly behind me though I expected a loud definitive thud from the polished hazelwood that towered over me. The plush red carpet between my shoes, spread in a long avenue right to the polished desk, gleaming in the light of an overhead chandelier that somehow managed to look a part of the ensemble despite not being the brooding all-male look of the rest of the room.

I saw my father, pour himself a glass full of the amber liquid that could be nothing but the finest Whisky, he stood at the large arching windows, his office being on one of the top floors. The window led to an idyllic garden and acres of meticulously kept land that stretched for miles on end.

He still hadn't looked at me properly but when he did I sort of wished his back had remained turned against me. He had the most intense eyes raging darkness that pooled and though I had always thought I had my mother's eyes looking as his in the disappearing light of the sun I realised there was a light shrouded in that darkness, a flicker of colour I witnessed whenever I looked in the mirror. Though my normal everyday eyes were a rarity in his, and the darkness he harboured only showed itself in mine when I was on the brink of insanity. When I was hurt, dejected cast aside nursing bruises and wondering why no one loved me.

The intensity didn't even begin to describe the aura of this whole house.

"Would you like some Mi Cara?"

"No thank you," I responded curtly my hands still fidgeting out of sight behind my back, I had this s awful habit of pinching at my skin pulling at the first layer every time I was anxious leaving deep crescent moons against my skin for hours after the marks had been inflicted, "I don't drink."

He smiled at that, settling down his drink and not taking another sip, "That is a good thing, my dear. I myself am trying to stop."

And I don't know why but I had to ask, "Because of Alessia?" the words had been sharp out of my mouth shooting straight at a soft spot I had seen in his eyes when he spoke with his friend.

He raised a brow remaining stoic but the thing about seeing your parent for the first time as you noticed the similarities, even though they hadn't raised you there were some innate characteristics, I saw the twitch in his jaw one that I had noticed in myself. And much like me when he had come under fire of a question that was intrusive, to say the least, he folded his arms behind him.

Just like me.

It was odd analysing someone that was my own flesh and blood who I hadn't even known for more than 24 hours, noticing how our facial structures were very similar. I was always lean and tall, with high cheekbones that were so very different from the softly rounded contours of my mother's face. I always did have a gangly look about me, though Vincent was anything but that, a broad-built man, I could see some of that in him, the harsh angular features and the slope of his nose almost identical to mine, the only thing that was different was our hair and our lips. Mine were thin and drawn out, an average size if anything and his were far fuller, making each frown more poignant.