Digging His Own Grave

Bella's father had no idea what he had just done.

Kafka turned his head slowly, the corners of his lips curling into a sharp, mocking smile—the kind someone gives when they're staring at something insignificant, something beneath them.

It was the kind of look that made her swallow hard, instinctively bracing herself for what was coming next.

Her father had stepped into a battlefield he wasn't prepared for, and even though Kafka wasn't going to lay a finger on him, Bella knew—she just knew that the words he was about to say would cut deeper than any physical blow.

But when Kafka spoke, his tone was calm, even casual. "Ignore my true intentions with your daughter for now, sir." He said politely, waving a hand like he was brushing off the accusation. "Let's simply talk hypothetically. If I were to say that I was interested in Bella...If I wanted to be with her, to spend the rest of my life with her...Would you accept it?"