"I expect you to do something." The lively Irish brogue has faded into a harsh, biting tone that stabs into my chest. The look of accusation in his eyes is difficult to answer.
I don't need his reminder. I see her face in my mind even now: her silky hair, soft chocolate eyes. The slight smile when she's amused, when she's happy. The more recent look of irritation, hurt, accusation. I can't get her out of my mind, and he's not helping.
"Watch your tone, Mr Douglas," The polished words are wrong, forced. "The choice is not yours to make."