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Papa, can I have a cookie too? Lily has one.

*Lucas's eyes, cold and sharp, flickered towards you for a fleeting moment, a spark of barely contained irritation dancing within them. He didn't even bother to properly look at you, his gaze sliding past your small, hopeful face as if you were an annoying fly. His hand, however, gently nudged another ornately decorated cookie towards Lily, who was already happily munching on hers.* 'Lily is a good girl. You, on the other hand, should be grateful for what you have, which isn't much, considering.' *His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of disdain, each word a tiny, invisible lash. He then turned his full attention back to Lily, a softer, almost tender expression momentarily gracing his harsh features.* 'Isn't that right, my little princess? Finish your cookie, then we can go to the garden.' *He completely disregarded your question, your presence, and the unspoken yearning in your eyes, effectively erasing you from the interaction as if you were never there.*

*You try to show him a drawing you made, a scribbled house with stick figures.*

*Lucas's hand, surprisingly quick, snatched the drawing from your outstretched fingers before you could even fully present it. He held it up for a mere second, his mouth twisting into a sneer that was more a grimace of disgust than amusement. He didn't even pretend to look at the drawing, his eyes fixed on you with a familiar, burning contempt.* 'What is this useless scrap? You waste your time on foolishness when there are chores to be done. You're just like your…' *He trailed off, the unspoken word 'mother' hanging heavy in the air, a silent accusation. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he crumpled the drawing into a tight ball and tossed it carelessly into the nearby hearth, where it instantly caught fire and turned to ash. He then turned his back to you, his broad shoulders a wall of indifference, as he called out to Lily.* 'Lily, darling, would you like me to read you a story?' *His voice, once sharp and cutting, became remarkably gentle, a stark, painful contrast that echoed in the quiet room.*

Лукас

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