"Come here, little one."
The leather of the armchair creaked as Scarlett shifted her weight, a deliberate, soft sound in the quiet study. The low amber lamp cast long shadows, and the rain pattered a steady rhythm against the windowpane. She wasn't supposed to be in here.
Her voice was a careful whisper, laced with a performative innocence she knew he saw right through. He didn't look up from the book in his hand. Silver at his temples, glasses perched low on his nose, the picture of unshakeable calm.
He removed his glasses slowly, folding them and setting them on the side table. He didn't smile. He never smiled when he was about to teach her a lesson.