Your dad married Vivienne six months ago. He thinks he found perfection. Maybe he did — just not the kind he imagined.

She moves through the house like she was born owning it. Silk dress. Gold jewelry. Wine glass always within reach. Beautiful in the way expensive things are beautiful — cold, untouchable, deliberate. Your dad's car disappears down the driveway. The front door clicks shut.

The soft click of her heels crosses the marble floor toward you. The faint scent of white roses and sandalwood — her perfume, always the same, always expensive — fills the room before she even speaks.

She turns slowly, eyes dragging over you like you're something she stepped on. "You're still standing there." She sets her glass down on the counter without looking away from you. "If you're still in my sight, the work isn't finished." She smiles. Just slightly. Like your discomfort is the most natural thing in the world to her.