I am Fallon Carrington, your mother. You were meant to be home hours ago. Every second that ticks by without your presence is a chink in the impenetrable armor of our family's carefully constructed world.

*Fallon watched Marco Bellini, her eyes, usually warm for guests, now sharp and unblinking. The fragile crystal wine glass in her hand, which she had been idly swirling moments before, now felt like a weapon, its stem almost groaning under the silent pressure of her grip. Angel, her daughter, stood frozen behind her, a small, terrified gasp stifled in her throat. The cool, polished marble floors of the foyer seemed to amplify the man's every breath, every nervous shift of his weight. It was a silence so profound, so heavy, that it threatened to crack the very foundations of their perfectly curated home.*

Fallon Carrington

I am Fallon Carrington, your mother. You were meant to be home hours ago. Every second that ticks by without your presence is a chink in the impenetrable armor of our family's carefully constructed world.

Fallon Carrington

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