STILETTO SISTERHOOD - Book Two

Eshe | Don't throw stones in glass houses

**Trigger warning - cutting. Skip the part after Eshe enters the bathroom near the end of scene* 

Eshe knew the storm was coming. And she had spent the better part of the weekend preparing for it. Her father wasn't the type to pick up the phone to rage, he prepared to save his standoffs for in person, and as Bobby DeGuzman slammed through the front door of the London flat, his severe features blistered with furious red, she realized just how unprepared she actually was.

Tossing down his satchel, her father unwound the scarf from around his neck and cast it to the leather bench in the foyer. The first flag—Bobby DeGuzman never just cast his things aside. Everything had a place and was expected to be set to rights immediately.

As kids, she and Lana were never allowed to leave their toys and belongings scattered about. The home was to be respected. As children, it was hard to play in such a home—especially when all the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with mirror panels or shining chrome. Leaving only the floor and trims as accents of wood in a literal glass house.

She stared at the scarf, indigo blue cashmere. She'd bought it for him for Christmas three years ago, now it lay at his feel like a river dividing them.

"Dad."

Bobby raised a trembling finger, the red in his face deepening to livid purple. "My office. Now."

"Darling—we're just about to sit down for dinner," her mother said, a hint of pleading in her voice as she brought out a bowl of Brussels pouts, browned in butter to join the honeyed ham roast. His favorite.

"This can't wait," he snapped, and stalked off.

Curled up on the ivory sectional with a book on procedural medicine in her lap, dark curls piled high in a sloppy bun, Lana sang, "Someone's gonna get it."

"Lana, please," their mother scolded, her dark skin flush with concern. Apparently her father had refused to take even his wife's calls while away at his surgeon's conference in Brussels. Saving the brunt and fury of his ire for Eshe alone.

Lana's right, she thought, as she followed him meekly into his private office space overlooking a quiet, posh street. I'm in deep trouble.

They'd passed through the main hallway lined with framed photographs—not of childhood milestones, or family vacations, those were all tastefully tucked away inside albums—but of her father and mother with elected officials, celebrities, famous athletes and, of course, other notable surgeons.

Bobby opened the door to his office, his anger emanating off him like waves of steam that scorched if she got too close, and he waited until she sat down in the chair facing his desk—like a patient—before easing the door shut. His knuckles cracking as he released his grip on the polished crystal knob.

"I received a call from Dr. Cavanaugh," he began, voice low and careful as he wove around his desk and sat down in the leather seat like it was a throne. "And just an hour before I was scheduled to deliver my keynote, might I add."

"Da—"

"Words cannot express the depths of my disappointment," he blasted on, chilly as a February wind, and Eshe dipped her chin, the searing burn of tears swelling behind her eyes. "To think that you would so willfully disrespect a woman of such repute within the medical community is staggering on its own—but waltzing into her lecture hung over and reeking of booze and then compound the insult by quitting her program is just...just..." her father's mouth sputtered like a gasping fish.