“My father’s voice follows me – ‘Freya, stop it, come back!’ – before the heavy oak door cuts off the sound. ‘Goddammit!’ I exclaim, frustration and anger bubbling around inside me. I would say something a lot worse if it wasn’t for the maid who is dusting the enormous gold lamps that sit on the console tables in the hall. She looks up at me, apprehensive, as though she’s worried I’m going to throw something in my fury. I look her straight in the eye and say loudly, ‘I’m not a baby!’ ‘No, miss...,’ she agrees swiftly, and goes back to polishing the lamp. ‘I refuse to be treated like one!’ ‘Yes, miss.’ I feel momentarily ashamed for involving her in my family troubles – she’s not paid enough to put up with that – and try to calm down a little. I sigh and head down the dimly lit corridor to my suite of rooms. I don’t like this place. My father had it built a couple of years ago – he has a ceaseless passion for creating and acquiring homes – and I’ve never warmed to it.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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