Chapter 6: Paternal Interruption
The sharp rapping on the dorm room door was like a gunshot in the fragile quiet of the morning. Veronica, who had been staring blankly at her law textbook, jumped. Stephanie, sprawled on the bed, groaned and pulled a pillow over her head.
“Go away,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep and the remnants of wine.
The knocking came again, more insistent this time. “Stephanie? Are you in there? It’s your father.”
Veronica’s blood ran cold. She met Stephanie’s wide, panicked eyes over the top of the pillow. The blissful, if tortured, solitude of the morning was shattered. Stephanie scrambled into a sitting position, her hands flying to her tangled hair.
“Mon dieu,” she whispered, a fresh wave of pallor washing over her already wan face. “He cannot see me like this.”
Veronica was already moving, her mind shifting from emotional chaos to tactical defense. “Bathroom. Now. Splash water on your face. Try to look… less hungover.”
She herded a wobbling Stephanie into the small ensuite bathroom just as the knocking started a third time, now accompanied by Charles’s voice, tight with controlled impatience. “Stephanie, I know you’re in there. I saw your car.”
“Coming, Papa!” Veronica called out, striving for a tone of cheerful normality. She shot a last, desperate look at the bathroom door, then went to let him in.
Charles Moreau De Fonteneau stood in the hallway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal grey overcoat. He was a handsome man, with the same sharp blue eyes as his daughter, but where Stephanie’s held a soft light, his were like chips of winter ice, assessing everything in a single, sweeping glance. That glance now took in Veronica’s rumpled clothes, the dishevelled bed, the two wine glasses still on the desk.
“Veronica,” he said, his accent a crisper, more formal version of Stephanie’s. He did not step fully inside. “I was concerned when Stephanie did not come home last night.”
“It was a late Friendsgiving, Mr. De Fonteneau,” Veronica said, crossing her arms over her chest. “She was tired. It was safer for her to stay here.”
His eyes flickered past her to the bathroom, from which the sound of running water was plainly audible. “I see.” The two words were heavy with unspoken conclusions. “I need to speak with my daughter.”
“She’s just freshening up.” Veronica held her ground, a familiar, protective stance she’d adopted since they were children. She was no longer the scared girl facing schoolyard bullies; she was a future lawyer, and this was her territory.
The bathroom door creaked open. Stephanie emerged, her hair damp around the edges, trying for a bright smile that didn’t reach her bleary eyes. “Papa! What a surprise.”
Charles’s expression softened for a fraction of a second at the sight of her, then hardened again as he took in the full picture: the puffiness under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click.
“You did not answer your phone,” he said, his voice low.
“I… it must have died. I’m sorry, Papa.” Stephanie’s gaze dropped to the floor.
A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the hum of the laptop fan. Veronica watched Charles watch his daughter, his jaw working slightly. She could see the calculations behind his eyes, the protective alarm bells ringing.
“We were just about to get some coffee and breakfast,” Veronica offered, trying to redirect the conversation. “There’s a great place on the corner that does—”
“What is wrong with you, Stephanie?” Charles interrupted, his focus laser-sharp on his daughter. “You are pale. You are shaking.”
Stephanie wrapped her arms around herself. “I just… I did not sleep very well. This bed is… lumpy.”
It was a pathetic lie, and they all knew it. Charles’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer, and a faint, almost imperceptible scent of last night’s wine, mixed with toothpaste, seemed to reach him. He stopped dead.
His head slowly turned toward Veronica, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees. “You let her drink.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
“Papa, no, it was just—” Stephanie began.
“I was not speaking to you,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. He kept his furious gaze locked on Veronica. “Well? You, who are supposed to be the responsible one. You let my nineteen-year-old daughter get drunk?”
Veronica’s own temper, already frayed from a night of longing and restraint, snapped. “I didn’t let her do anything. She’s an adult. She had a glass of wine with her friends. It was a holiday.”
“A holiday?” Charles laughed, a short, bitter sound. “This is not France, Veronica. And she is not one of your… college friends. She is naive. She does not know her limits.” He turned his fury back on Stephanie. “And you. You know the rules. You know the dangers of being irresponsible. After everything…”
“It was one night!” Stephanie’s voice broke, tears welling in her eyes. “One night to be normal! To not be the sheltered heiress who has to be driven everywhere and cannot have a single glass of wine without her papa interrogating her friends!”
The word ‘sheltered’ hit its mark. Charles’s face tightened, a mask of paternal frustration and a deeper, more profound fear that Veronica had never fully understood. “This is not about being sheltered. This is about being safe. You think I do this to punish you? Everything I do is to protect you.”
“From what?” Stephanie cried, throwing her hands up. “From having a life? From having friends? From Veronica?”
The air crackled. Charles glanced between the two of them, his eyes lingering on the single, clearly slept-in bed, on Veronica’s defensive posture. A new, uglier suspicion dawned on his face.
“From making mistakes that cannot be undone,” he said, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “And it seems I am already too late.”
He strode to the bed, snatched up Stephanie’s purse and sweater from where they lay. “We are leaving. Now.”
“Papa, no!”
“Now, Stephanie.”
He took her firmly by the arm, guiding her toward the door. Stephanie looked back at Veronica, her face a mess of tears and apology and helpless anger. Veronica stood rooted to the spot, every muscle taut. She wanted to fight, to block the door, to scream at him that Stephanie was more than just his precious, fragile object.
But the look in Charles’s eyes wasn’t just anger. It was raw, primal fear. And that, more than his authority, kept her silent.
The door swung open and then closed, leaving Veronica alone in the suddenly enormous silence of her dorm room. The scent of jasmine had been overwhelmed by the sterile odor of conflict. She stood there for a long time, listening to the echo of his last words. Mistakes that cannot be undone.
He wasn’t just talking about the wine. He had seen something, sensed the shift in the energy between them. The battle was no longer just internal. It had just been declared.