POV: Marina
The Carter mansion had always smelled of floor wax, cold lilies, and the suffocating scent of old money. But tonight, as the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind the family, the air tasted of ozone and unfiltered rage.
"How could you be so incompetent?!"
The roar echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the grand foyer. My father, Alistair Carter, didn't even wait to reach his study. He stood in the center of the Persian rug, his face a bloated shade of purple that clashed hideously with his silk bowtie.
CRACK.
A crystal tumbler, half-full of twenty-year-old scotch, flew across the room and pulverized against the wainscoting. The amber liquid sprayed across a portrait of my mother, dripping down her painted cheek like a bitter tear.
"Alistair, please, the servants…" my mother, Eleanor, started, her voice trembling as she clutched her throat.
