Eleanor's POV
I was utterly speechless. My mind had short-circuited, unable to process the sheer audacity of the scene unfolding in my kitchen. The vase in my hand was forgotten, its weight the only thing anchoring me to reality.
Dickson mistook my stunned silence for overwhelmed joy. His smile widened, becoming unbearably smug. "I know," he said, his voice oozing with self-satisfaction. "You didn't expect this. I wanted to surprise you, to finally make your dream come true."
I still couldn't form words. A violent, foreign thought sliced through the static in my head.
Smash that vase across his misogynistic, narcissistic, utterly pathetic face.
The urge was so visceral, so specific and insulting, that I physically recoiled. I shoved the thought down.
Dickson was still talking, completely oblivious to the internal war raging inside me. "I would kneel," he said, with a sigh of faux regret, "but I can't risk staining these trousers. They're very expensive. You understand."
