"Valerie, you're late again," Mr. Birmingham said, his voice a low rumble that held a hint of displeasure.
 "Oh, I know," Valerie responded, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. "But I couldn't help it. The traffic was simply unbearable."
 Ezra rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thin. He couldn't understand how his father, a man of order and discipline, could tolerate her constant tardiness and her blatant disregard for their carefully structured routine.
 Victoria, his father's second wife, always the picture of poise, offered a weak smile. "Well, we're all here now," she said, her voice a touch too high-pitched, as if trying to mask the discomfort her presence caused.
 Ezra watched as Valerie reached for a napkin, her manicured fingers brushing against his arm. He felt a wave of disgust wash over him, a reminder of her constant attempts to get closer, to insert herself into his life.
 He wanted to escape, to flee this suffocating atmosphere, to find peace in his own solitude. But the duty of this ritual, the unspoken obligation to his father, kept him tethered to this table, trapped in a charade he couldn't break free from. He was a prisoner in his own home, a hostage to tradition and the ghosts of his past.
 ================================
 The heavy mahogany doors of the dining room swung shut behind them, effectively silencing the lingering echoes of forced conversation and strained smiles. Ezra felt a wave of relief wash over him as he stepped out into the hallway, away from the stifling atmosphere of the grand table and the ever-present, grating presence of Valerie.
 Mr. Birmingham, his stoic expression unreadable as ever, spoke first. "Ezra," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Come with me."
 Ezra, sensing a shift in the air, followed his father, his heart beating a little faster. The silence between them, a constant companion in their strained relationship, felt more intense now, thick with unspoken words and years of unresolved tension.
 They walked in a measured pace, their footsteps echoing in the grand hallway, towards the library. It was a place Ezra hadn't been in years, a refuge of books and quiet contemplation, a space that whispered of a different time, a time when he and his father had shared a different kind of bond, a bond now fractured beyond repair.
 "Have a seat," Mr. Birmingham commanded, gesturing towards a plush leather armchair positioned next to a roaring fireplace.
 Ezra took a seat, his eyes tracing the intricate carvings on the mahogany desk and the towering shelves filled with leather-bound volumes. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and pipe tobacco, a comforting scent that had been a constant presence in his childhood.
 Mr. Birmingham, his back straight as he poured two glasses of scotch, turned towards Ezra, his gaze unwavering. "I wanted to talk to you," he said, his voice a low, rumbling whisper. "There's something I need to tell you."
 Ezra's curiosity was piqued. This was uncharacteristic of his father, a man who rarely ventured beyond the realms of business and routine. He straightened in his chair, his senses heightened.
 "What is it, Dad?" he asked, his voice a low, hesitant murmur.
 "This… this house," Mr. Birmingham said, his gaze sweeping across the grand room, "it's more than just bricks and mortar. It's a legacy, a symbol of everything I've built. And… I want to leave it to you."
 Ezra's jaw dropped, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Leave the house to me? But… why?"
 He couldn't fathom his father’s gesture, the unexpected generosity of a man who had always been measured in his affections and his words.
 Mr. Birmingham sighed, a deep, resonant sound that echoed in the silence. "It's… it's time," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I've made my choices, and I've… I’ve lived my life. But this house… this is yours, Ezra. It always has been."
 Ezra stared at his father, his heart a mix of surprise, confusion, and a flicker of cautious hope. This was a shift, a change, a moment that could potentially alter the course of their relationship.
 "I… I don’t know what to say, Dad," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
 He was aware of the complexities of this gesture, the unspoken weight of expectations and the legacy he was being entrusted with. It was more than just a house, it was a symbol of a life, a history, and the promise of a future. And as Ezra looked at his father, his eyes reflecting the weight of time and the burden of his past, he knew that this unexpected gesture was a chance for them to start anew, a chance to bridge the chasm that had separated them for so long.
 Mr. Birmingham took a long sip of his scotch, his gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the fireplace. The silence that followed, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire, felt heavier than before.
 "And there's one more thing I needed to tell you," he said, his voice a gravelly whisper. "Every house needs to have a lady who will take good care of all the homely matters. And I am sure you know what I'm talking about."
 Ezra felt a pang of frustration, a sudden tightness in his chest. "Yes," he said, his voice flat. "You're telling me to get a wife and have a family."
 He had known, deep down, that this was coming. It was a recurring theme in their strained relationship, a pressure he had always felt, a yearning his father had always expressed. But the idea of being forced into a marriage, a life dictated by his father's expectations, filled him with a sense of unease.
 "You got it right," Mr. Birmingham said, his voice gruff. "There should always be a Mrs. Birmingham in our mansion, son. And I just have the perfect candidate..."
 He paused, his gaze meeting Ezra's, a knowing glint in his eyes.
 "Oh, I know who's that perfect candidate," Ezra said, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. "You're talking about Valerie, am I right?"