There was no sound except the ticking of the clock as the daughter sat in Lucien's study. Her eyes were downcast, hands gripping the edge of her skirt.

Lucien stood by the window, his back straight, unmoving.

"You know the rules of this family," he said finally, calm but firm. "And you also know what happens if they're broken."

His daughter did not answer. She didn’t need to. She simply took a deep breath, accepting every word like a dull knife that had often made its mark.

"You're not a little girl anymore," Lucien continued, now looking at her. "So stop acting like one. I don't need tears, I need responsibility."

He then returned to his desk, flipping through the pages of a document—as if their conversation were just a formality. To Lucien, love never came in the form of hugs. But in demands. In boundaries. And in expectations that he never allowed to be lowered.