Page 9 of Quick on the Claw

As she tended to her leafy companion, Tiffany’s mind wandered back to the gala. The glitz and glamour, the endless small talk, and most importantly, her conversation with Gerri Wilder. Alien shifters. A whole new world. It sounded like something out of a sci-fi novel, not real life.

And yet...

Tiffany shook her head, trying to clear the fantastical thoughts. She needed a glass of wine and some time to process everything. Padding to the kitchen, she pulled out a bottle of her favorite red and poured herself a generous glass.

Taking a sip, she leaned against the counter, her free hand absently toying with the delicate chain around her neck. Her fingers found the ring that hung there – her grandmother’s ring. A wave of melancholy washed over her as she remembered the woman who had always encouraged her to follow her dreams, no matter where they led.

“What would you think of all this, Grandma?” Tiffany whispered. “Alien planets and shifter kings? You’d probably tell me to pack my bags and go on an adventure.”

The sudden, harsh buzz of her phone interrupted her musings. Tiffany glanced at the screen and groaned. Her father. Of course. He never could let a society event go by without critiquing her performance.

For a moment, she considered ignoring the call. But years of ingrained obedience won out, and she reluctantly answered.

“Hello, Father.”

“Tiffany.” Henry Whitlock’s voice was clipped and businesslike, as always. “I trust you are well.”

“Yes, I’m fine. Is there something?—”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. We need to talk.”

The line went dead before Tiffany could protest. She stared at her phone in disbelief, a knot of dread forming in her stomach. Her father never came to her apartment. He considered it beneath him, a constant source of disappointment and embarrassment.

“Damn it,” Tiffany muttered, downing the rest of her wine in one gulp. She glanced around her small living room, suddenly seeing it through her father’s critical eyes. The secondhand furniture, the cramped kitchen, the lack of designer labels or expensive art. All the things that made it feel like home to her would only fuel Henry’s disapproval.

True to his word, precisely ten minutes later, a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. Tiffany took a deep breath, steeling herself before opening the door.

Henry Whitlock stood in the hallway, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than Tiffany’s monthly rent. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly styled, and his steel-gray eyes – so similar to Tiffany’s own – swept over her with thinly veiled disapproval.

“Father,” Tiffany greeted, stepping aside to let him in. “This is... unexpected.”

Henry strode into the apartment, his presence seeming to fill the small space. His gaze darted around, taking in every detail with a slight frown.

“Tiffany,” he said, turning to face her. “We need to discuss your future.”

Tiffany’s heart sank. She knew that tone all too well. It was the same one he’d used when he told her that teaching was a waste of her potential, that she was embarrassing the family by living like a “common worker.”

“My future is fine, Father,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m happy with my job, and?—”

“Happy?” Henry scoffed. “You call this happy? Living in this... this shoebox, surrounded by dusty old books and grading papers for ungrateful children?”

Anger flared in Tiffany’s chest. “Those ‘ungrateful children’ are my students, and I happen to love teaching them.”

Henry waved a dismissive hand. “It’s time to grow up, Tiffany. You’re thirty years old, for God’s sake. You should be married by now, starting a family, taking your place in the company.”

“I don’t want to work for the company,” Tiffany insisted, her voice rising. “I’ve told you this a thousand times. I’m a teacher. It’s what I love, it’s what I’m good at.”

“Good at?” Henry’s laugh was harsh and mocking. “You’re a Whitlock. You’re meant for greater things than babysitting teenagers and living paycheck to paycheck.”

Tiffany’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I make a difference in my students’ lives. That means more to me than any amount of money or status.”

“Don’t be naive,” Henry snapped. “You think you’re making a difference? You’re wasting your potential and embarrassing your family, all for what? So you can play at being independent?”

The words stung, hitting every insecurity Tiffany had ever harbored. “I’m not playing at anything. This is my life, my choice.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Your choices reflect on this entire family, Tiffany. Do you have any idea how it looks when people ask what my daughter does, and I have to tell them she’s a public school teacher?”

Tiffany couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. “Oh, the horror. Quick, someone call the society pages. Henry Whitlock’s daughter is educating the youth instead of day drinking at country clubs. How will the family ever recover?”

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