He clearly hadn’t expected that response. His expression froze for a couple of seconds before his brows knit together again, his tone slipping back into that familiar “I’m doing this for your own good” voice.
“You can’t put it that way,” he said.
“The tutoring can slow down, sure. But how can you just cut everything off completely? Do you know how hard it was to get Cruella into that private school? You spent so much effort back then. Have you really forgotten?”
I didn’t respond. I just lowered my head and kept tending to the wound.
Standing beside me, Viggo watched my indifference. A flicker of irritation flashed in his eyes, quickly smothered.
“If you don’t agree,” I said flatly, “then you can explain it to your daughter yourself.”
“This was a decision you and she made together.”
He clearly froze.
He had never seen me this cold before.
In the past, no matter what he said, I’d instinctively smoothed things over for him, cleaned up his messes, never once pushed responsibility back onto him.
The displeasure crossed his face again, gone just as quickly.
As if remembering something, he suddenly reached into his briefcase, pulled out a document, and handed it to me.