The elegance of the Wongsawat estate couldn't mask the rot of old-world tyranny. As soon as the guests—including the oblivious Siriporns—had departed, the veneer of politeness shattered.
Grandfather Suwannarat didn't want dessert; he wanted submission. When KK stood to leave, the old man's cane became a scepter of judgment.
"Klaew Kla, where are you going?"
"The dinner is over," KK replied, his voice a calm contrast to the storm brewing in the old man's eyes. "I'm going back."
"I haven't finished talking to you."
"If you're trying to give me the same advice I've heard a thousand times, I've heard it," KK said, standing tall. "The answer remain the same."
The sound of the grandfather's hand striking the table echoed like a gunshot. "I have only two grandsons! I don't believe I can't change you!"
KK looked at the man who shared his blood but none of his values. "No," KK said with chilling clarity. "You only have one grandson—the one standing beside you. Not this 'weirdo' standing opposite you."
The word weirdo hung in the air—a callback to how the family viewed KK's refusal to follow their traditional, rigid path. The cane swung, a blur of polished wood aimed at KK's head. If not for Kittichat's intervention, the first blow might have been worse. But the second strike found its mark.
The crack of the cane against KK's forehead was followed by the sharp intake of breath from the women in the room. Blood began to bloom, a crimson streak against his skin.
"KK, apologize!" Kittichat pleaded, trying to manage the grandfather's sudden coughing fit.
"I'm not wrong," KK said, his voice unwavering even as his stepmother wiped the blood with a silk napkin. "Why should I apologize?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't wait for his grandfather to catch his breath. KK walked out of the house, leaving the "traditional way of life" behind him in the dimly lit dining room.
Sitting in the sanctuary of his car, KK looked in the rearview mirror. The skin was torn, the wound shallow but stinging. He wiped the blood away with a grimace.
He hated these dinners because they were a reminder of the "box" his family wanted to trap him in. To his grandfather, the head of the family was a god whose mistakes were law. To KK, respect was earned through honesty and the courage to admit when one is wrong—whether you are a billionaire or a waiter.
As he shifted the car into gear, his thoughts shifted from the violence of his grandfather to the peace of Santichai. He had just been struck for his identity, but it only made his resolve stronger. He wouldn't just be Santichai's boyfriend; he would be the man who proved that a different kind of life—one built on equality—was possible.
As the adrenaline faded, Grandfather Suwannarat slumped into his chair, the rhythm of his heart finally smoothing out under the watchful eye of his family. He scanned the room, looking for the defiant spark in KK's eyes, but found only empty space. The absence hit him harder than the argument—a physical reminder that with every strike of his cane, he was pushing his most brilliant grandson further into the shadows.
He didn't understand. He saw KK's intelligence, his sharp business mind, and his potential to lead the Suwannarat empire. To the Grandfather, discipline was the only way to forge a leader. He didn't realize that by treating KK like an unruly subordinate instead of a man, he had turned himself into an enemy.
"Grandpa, don't be angry," Ying whispered, her voice hovering with concern. "It's not good for your blood pressure."
"Why didn't you teach your son to be more respectful?" the old man barked at his son, his voice still trembling with the remnants of his rage. "Why did you let him do whatever he wanted?"
Mr. Suwannarat met his father's gaze with a weary, steady patience. "Pa, we've been through this. Every time KK comes, it ends like this. I know you're the elder, but maybe you could take a step back and try to understand him."
"I couldn't accept the fact that he would be bringing a man home to meet me," the grandfather muttered, his worldview clashing violently with KK's reality.
"Pa, the whole family accepts him," Mr. Suwannarat said, his voice softening into a plea for wisdom. "The world is changing. The new generation doesn't think like us. We have to learn to walk with one eye closed and one ear plugged just so we can stay beside them. No matter what they look like, at the end of the day, they are our children. We can scold them all we want, but when they are lying in a hospital bed, we will always be the first to show up. Because they are ours."
The room fell silent. Mr. Suwannarat's words were a bridge—one that the grandfather wasn't yet ready to walk across.
The word hospital acted like a trigger, sending Grandfather Suwannarat's mind spiraling back into a past he tried every day to bury. The clinical smell of the dining room seemed to change to the sharp, metallic scent of antiseptic. He wasn't in a mansion anymore; he was back in that hallway of fluorescent lights and frantic footsteps.
On that night years ago, the grandfather had arrived in his pajamas, his dignity forgotten as he stormed through the emergency doors. He remembered the sight of his son and daughter-in-law silhouetted against a window, the muffled sound of Mrs. Suwannarat's sobbing punctuating the silence of the ward.
"How is he?" he had gasped.
"They're still pumping his stomach, Pa," Mr. Suwannarat had replied, his voice hollow.
"He was out for too long," his daughter-in-law added through tears. "If they can't stabilize his heart, he could slip into a coma."
The Grandfather's knees had given way then, the weight of his own expectations suddenly feeling like the stones that had sunk his grandson. He had collapsed into a chair, lashing out at his son to hide his own guilt. "How did you let this happen? What kind of father are you?"
But the true storm had come from the other side of the room. Mrs. Cole—KK's mother—had marched toward him, her grief transformed into a weapon.
"What are you doing here? Get out! Get out!" she had screamed.
"Khun, speak nicely," Mr. Suwannarat had pleaded, but Mrs. Cole was past the point of social graces.
"I don't care who is who!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the sterile walls. "If anything happens to my son, I will hold every Suwannarat accountable! I will go head-to-head with your family until there is nothing left!"
As she collapsed into her husband's arms, her words laid bare the tragedy of KK's childhood. "I shouldn't have left him to be tormented by these villains. No matter what anyone thinks of him, he's my son. The 'weirdo' everyone hates is my son. Others may not be hurt, but I am. Others may not love him, but I do... because he's my sweet, sweet little boy."
The memory of the hospital ward finally released its grip, and Grandfather Suwannarat opened his eyes to the present. The silence in the dining room was heavy, the air thick with the unspoken ghosts of KK's past.
Mr. Suwannarat looked at his father, his voice dropping into a register of cold, hard truth. "Pa, look at me. Do you want him to visit you at home? Or do you want to visit him at the morgue?"
The Grandfather flinched, the word morgue cutting through his pride like a blade. "I..."
"Father, let him choose who he wants to love," Mr. Suwannarat continued, his eyes weary from years of playing mediator. "Heaven gave him a second chance at life, and I won't watch that second chance be ruined again. Look at my own life. I married the woman you chose for me, and our marriage didn't even survive past KK's fifth birthday. We followed your rules, and all we produced was misery."
Grandfather Suwannarat's nostrils flared as he breathed heavily, his hands gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles were white. "A man ruined his life before," he hissed, the bitterness of the past leaking out. "That is why I cannot accept another man into his life. I saw what it did to him."
The city lights blurred past the windshield as KK drove, his grip on the steering wheel tight enough to make his knuckles ache. He was no longer that "weakling" in the pajamas, but the ghosts of the Suwannarat house still chased him. He felt the cold creep of his old life—a life where he was a commodity, not a person.
Then, the soft ping of a message broke the silence.
"Did you have fun with your family?"
The simple, honest question from Santichai acted like an anchor. KK didn't text back. He pressed the call button on his steering wheel.
"What are you doing?" KK asked, his voice sounding thick even to his own ears.
"I'm about to eat," Santichai replied.
"What are you eating?"
"Ma-Ma (instant noodles) with egg and vegetables."
"Make me a bowl," KK said, a sudden, desperate need for simplicity washing over him. "I'm not far. See you in ten minutes."
Ten minutes later, Santichai was standing over the sink when the knock came. He dried his hands and pulled open the door, only to freeze. The sight of blood seeping from a jagged cut on KK's forehead made his breath hitch.
"What happened?" Santichai gasped, his caregiver instincts overriding his shyness.
"I got robbed," KK joked, though the humor didn't reach his eyes. He stepped inside, the small apartment feeling more like a home than the Wongsawat super hotel ever could. "The guy hit me because I wouldn't hand over my wallet."
"Don't trade your life for a little pocket money!" Santichai scolded, his voice trembling with genuine worry. He pulled KK toward the sofa and scrambled for the first aid kit. "You can cancel bank cards, KK. You can't replace yourself."
Santichai worked with focused gentleness, cleaning the blood away with antiseptic and applying ointment. He didn't see the way KK was looking at him—not as a doctor looks at a patient, but as a drowning man looks at the shore.
"Are you injured anywhere else?" Santichai asked, leaning in to press a band-aid over the wound.
Before he could pull away, KK reached out. He didn't grab Santichai with his usual playful confidence; he pulled him in firmly, burying his face against Santichai's stomach. He wrapped his arms around Santichai's waist, breathing in the scent of laundry soap and the steam from the noodles.
"It's worth it," KK murmured against the fabric of Santichai's shirt.
"What's worth it?" Santichai asked, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air before slowly, tentatively, coming down to rest on KK's shoulders.
"Everything," KK whispered. "I stepped on a lot of toes tonight. But a hug like this... it makes it all worth it at the end of the day."