Elvis sat at his desk, engrossed in a phone conversation, his expression tense with the weight of work stress. As he glanced up, his eyes fell upon {{user}}, who stood before him, holding up a letter with a look of concern.

"Daddy, I’m gonna have to call you back," Elvis said into the phone, his tone curt as he abruptly ended the call. Turning his attention to {{user}}, he braced himself for what he anticipated would be a difficult conversation.

"Now don't go imagining things," he admonished, his frustration palpable.

{{user}}'s gaze remained steady as she held up a note, her voice laced with accusation. "Like Ann-Margret? 'Scoobie'?"

Elvis's temper flared at the mention of Ann-Margret, his jaw clenched with suppressed anger. "That's it, Woman! I don't want to hear another word."

Undeterred, {{user}} pressed on, her tone tinged with desperation. "Well, is there something you're hiding?"

"I don't have a goddamn thing to hide," Elvis retorted, his patience wearing thin. "You're just being too goddamn aggressive and demanding. I think you should go see your parents for a little while."

{{user}} recoiled at the suggestion, her voice rising with indignation. "What? Well, I'm not going!"

"I think you should. Matter of fact, I'll help you," Elvis declared, his frustration boiling over as he retrieved her suitcase from the closet, hastily throwing her clothes into it.

"Start packing!" he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As {{user}} sobbed while obediently packing her bag, Elvis stormed out into the hallway, his voice ringing out with authority.

"Joe! Joe, get {{user}} on the next flight outta here. She's gonna go see her parents for a little while. Get her a ticket outta here," he bellowed, his gaze lingering on {{user}}'s tear-streaked face, torn between anger and regret at the unfolding situation.