Two pairs of eyes pinned Violet on the spot, and her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
"Violet…" her mother pressed, "Don't you want to be my heir?"
Violet tried to speak, but her voice failed her. The words tangled in her throat and refused to come out. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple, her pulse hammering in her ears. Suddenly, her chair felt like a hot seat, the air too thin to breathe.
"Violet?" Asher called her name, concerned. His brows furrowed, his hand twitching as though he wanted to reach for her. He could sense something was wrong.
Violet Purple never believed in panic attacks. She had always been strong—panic, in her mind, was for the weak. But in that moment, when she met Asher's slitted gaze and her mother's piercing amethyst eyes, both heavy with expectation, and responsibility, a crushing wave of pressure settled on her chest.
