"This is your final chance, Lysander. Don't let them take me!" Lady Rowena's desperate plea echoed through the room.
I watched my father's face contort with conflict. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he might actually stand against me. But true to his nature, he merely sighed and shook his head.
"I cannot fight my own son, Rowena," he said quietly. "I cannot fight his men."
"Cannot or will not?" she hissed, her eyes flashing with fury.
"Both," my father admitted, refusing to meet her gaze. "It's over. You must go."
Lady Rowena's face transformed before my eyes, decades of careful aristocratic composure crumbling into raw rage. "You miserable coward! You're simply trying to be rid of me!"
"I'm trying to preserve what little dignity remains," Father replied, finally looking up. "Go with them, Rowena. Don't make this worse than it already is."
She laughed bitterly. "Preserve dignity? You wouldn't know dignity if it slapped you across your spineless face!"
