Nicholas
The sharp, rhythmic click of high heels and the firm thud of a silver-tipped walking cane against the foyer's marble floor echoed down the corridor.
I paused in the hallway, adjusting my cuffs. I knew that distinct sound anywhere.
Before Mrs. Hayes could even step forward to announce the visitors, the heavy oak front doors swung open. My father, Richard Sutton, stepped into the grand entryway, his tall, rigid frame clad in a immaculate dark suit. Beside him stood my mother, Eleanor Sutton, wrapped in a tailored beige coat, her icy blue eyes taking in every inch of the foyer with sharp, disapproving scrutiny.
My stomach tightened. They weren't supposed to visit for another month.
"Mother. Father," I said, stepping forward, keeping my voice smooth and controlled. "You didn't in
