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“Sit down, Oriana. Now,” my father snaps.

Emma clears her throat. “I’m sorry, sir. We couldn’t get Oriana’s dress dry, and I have one in my car she could borrow, so—”

“No-one is talking to you,” my father sneers. “Come back to the table, Oriana. Now.”

“No,” I say quietly.

“Excuse me?” He looks ludicrously surprised.

“No,” I say again, louder this time. “I’m leaving.”

And then I turn around and run.