Vincent returned to his family home, the weight of his decision still fresh in his mind. The mansion, once a place where he felt secure and loved, now felt like a hollow echo of his past. He entered quietly, his eyes searching the familiar halls, but all he saw were walls filled with expectations that were no longer his own.
His family was gathered around the dinner table, the laughter and warmth of the evening something he had once longed for. But now, it only felt like a distant memory—something that no longer belonged to him.
His mother's eyes widened when she saw him, a flicker of shock passing through her features. He hadn't been home since he was 16.
His mother stood quickly, her heels clicking against the floor as she moved toward him. "Why didn't you come sooner, my dear? Come, sit with us. We've missed you."
The invitation to dinner, however, was colder than it seemed. There was a strange, almost distant quality to the way she offered him a seat at the table, like he was a guest in his own home
The tension in the dining room thickened as Vincent stood at the doorway, his words still hanging in the air. "I've already eaten. I ate at Anastasia's home."
His mother's initial reaction was subtle, but Vincent caught the sharp look that flickered in her eyes. It was something he hadn't noticed before—the hint of disgust hidden behind a mask of politeness. He knew that she, of all people, wouldn't have shown it if she hadn't been genuinely bothered. Yet, she tried to mask it, plastering a smile across her face that seemed too wide, too forced.
"You ate there?" she repeated, her voice sweet but tight with restraint. Her fingers gripped the edge of her napkin, and for the first time in years, Vincent could feel the weight of her silent judgment. "At the Vasilievs' house?"
Vincent nodded slowly, feeling his mother's eyes burn into him. He didn't think much of it at first, but then the questions started, one after another, rapidly escalating, each one more probing than the last.
"Why were you there?" his father asked, his voice calm but laced with an edge that made Vincent feel like he was under a microscope.
"How long did you stay?" his mother added, her tone colder now, though she quickly composed herself.
"What were you doing there? Was it a business meeting?" his father asked again, his tone now sharper, as though the mere idea of Vincent being in the Vasilievs' house was somehow an affront to their family.
"Did you speak to Anastasia's father? Did you discuss something important?" His mother's eyes flicked to his father, and for a moment, Vincent could see the briefest flash of something cold between them—something Vincent didn't understand.
"Did you eat with her family?" Vincent could sense the undercurrent of anger in his mother's voice now. It was subtle but unmistakable.
"How much time did you spend there?" his father asked, his eyes narrowing. "Were you alone with her?"
Each question fell like a blow, and Vincent felt himself squirming under the weight of their suspicion.
"What did you talk about?" his older brother, who had been quiet up until now, asked. His tone wasn't friendly; it was laced with something Vincent couldn't quite place.
The questions kept coming—"Did she mention anything about the family?""What did you discuss with her? Did you have a private conversation?""Were you treated well?""Did you tell them about your plans?"
Vincent's older brother's gaze lingered on him, his eyes calculating, and Vincent could sense the judgment in them. There was an unspoken tension in the air now, a feeling that Vincent wasn't quite part of this family anymore. Not in the way his brother and parents were. They were all looking at him as though he were the outsider, as though his association with the Vasiliev family—a family that, according to the atmosphere in the room, was beneath theirs—was a betrayal.
It was clear now: his mother, his father, and even his older brother shared a secret he didn't know. The Vasilievs were not just a rival family—they were the family that had surpassed them. His father's gaze darkened as he looked at Vincent, and his mother's smile had long since faded, replaced by a cool mask of politeness, hiding the resentment beneath.
For the first time in his life, Vincent felt as if he didn't belong here. Not in his own home, not with his own family. His father, who had always been so protective of him, was now treating him as though he were the problem.
His father's voice cut through the tension, a low, commanding tone that Vincent knew all too well. "Why are you here, Vincent? Why have you come after so many years? You never visit, you never call, and now you show up unannounced?"
The questions came quickly, one after another, each more probing than the last. Vincent's father's eyes were cold, calculating, and Vincent could feel the pressure mounting. His older brother, who had been silent until now, chimed in with a look of disdain.
"Do you think you can just waltz back in here, after abandoning us all these years?" his brother sneered. "What's this about you being so involved with the Vasilievs? You've always been so secretive. What are you hiding?"
But amid the chaos, Vincent remained silent. He didn't reveal the truth, not yet. He couldn't. Not to them.
Instead, he took a deep breath and finally spoke, his voice steady but resolute. "Mr. Vasiliev sent something for you," he said, pulling the box from his coat pocket.
The mention of her father's name seemed to stop the questions momentarily. His father's eyes narrowed. "Why are you calling him that? Why so respectful? What's going on between you and the Vasilievs, Vincent?"
There was a flash of anger in his father's voice, but he quickly masked it. After a long pause, he took the box without a word, glaring at Vincent as he did.
His mother's voice, though laced with discomfort, tried to soften the moment. "Vincent, stay with us for a while. You've been away for so long. We miss you."
But Vincent couldn't stay. Not when it felt like he was no longer a part of this family—not when he realized how much he had already given up. "I'm busy," he replied simply. "I can't stay."
As he turned to leave, he realized that he wasn't just walking out of his family's home. He was walking away from everything they had once expected of him.