Hearing my footsteps, Violet emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron as if nothing were amiss.
"Zoey, you're up?" She beamed, gesturing to the man. "This is my son, Isaac Whitney. Since you're both young, I brought him over so you could get to know each other."
My gaze shifted to Isaac.
He stood maybe five-seven but easily weighed over two hundred pounds. His face was pitted with acne scars, his greasy hair looked unwashed for a week, and he was sprawled across my imported leather sofa, muddy shoes planted directly on the white carpet.
His eyes raked over me—invasive, assessing. Revulsion slid down my spine.
I pointed at him, then glared at Violet. "This is my private residence. Who gave you permission to bring a stranger into my home?"
Violet's smile faltered. She froze, unsure how to react.
Isaac slammed his hand on the armrest, face twisting.
"Who gave you the right to talk to my mother like that? Is that how your parents taught you to treat elders?" He sneered, leaning forward. "I only came to give you a chance. Otherwise, you couldn't pay me to visit. Apologize to my mom, or don't blame me for getting rough."
My patience snapped. I raised my phone.