The man paced back and forth, his mahogany cane rhythmically tapping against the wooden floor, as he searched for the right words to express his frustration.
“Fireplace,” he finally began, without meeting her gaze.
“You are 24 years old.
At your age, your mother had already given birth to three children and cemented alliances that greatly benefited this family, but you stopped, gesturing vaguely at her.
You have turned out to be a failed investment, a disgrace to the Vázquez de Coronado name.”
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