Kit surfaced like wreckage from a flood. His breath came in pieces. The haze hadn't left—it had only curled tighter around his ribs, clinging like second skin. Across the room, Tyler moved through the cluttered apartment with a casual grace, tugging on a wrinkled shirt, slipping rings onto his fingers. His coffee mug was already half-empty.
"You ever tell anyone about Sebastian? About what he's really like?" Kit asked, voice low, hoarse.
Tyler paused mid-sip. "Not really. We never hung out much, even though we're the same age. Your brother isn't exactly… warm."
Kit nodded faintly. "Yeah. I get that."
There was a brief rustle as Tyler kicked a shoe out from under the couch. "You're different, though. You're the little brother I wish I had. Someone I could trust."
Kit blinked. His chest stung. For the first time in a while, the silence didn't feel like drowning.
Tyler slung a bag over his shoulder, then came to sit beside him—shirt half-buttoned, coffee steam curling like fog around his tired face.
"Look," he said seriously, "I get it—why you do what you do. Life's been hell. But don't let it swallow you. Especially now."
Kit pressed his palms together, grounding. "I'm just tired of feeling like I'm always ten seconds from vanishing."
Tyler's hand landed solidly on his shoulder. "Take a breath. Just for a few days—stay clean. Clear your head. You're not alone in this, man."
Kit exhaled, voice barely there. "Thanks, Ty."
From somewhere near the door, an alarm buzzed faintly. Tyler stood, muttering, "We'll be late."
He tossed Kit a hoodie from the back of a chair—like it was any other morning. Like they were just two guys getting ready for school.
Then, on his way out, Tyler doubled back, snagged a stack of lesson plans off the counter, and swept his keyring from beneath an open notebook labeled Faculty Parking Permit Application.
"Almost forgot," he muttered to himself. "Again."
.
.
.
.
Delorah sat at her locker, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the cracked edge of her textbook. The hallway around her buzzed with morning chatter, locker slams, sneaker squeaks. It all blurred into static—background noise behind the weight in her chest.
The dinner was tonight.
She adjusted her grip on the book, knuckles pale. No matter how she rehearsed it—what to say, how to smile—nothing felt real enough to hold.
The bell shrieked overhead, and she startled slightly. With a breath she didn't quite believe in, she pushed herself upright and walked toward second period.
Inside the classroom, a soft hum of idle voices filtered through the fluorescent-lit air. A few kids were already slouched at their desks, scrolling their phones or doodling on notebooks. She stepped in quietly, eyes flicking to the back of the room, to the window seat she always took.
Then—
The door creaked again.
Kit slipped in like smoke. Head down. Hoodie sleeves tugged over his palms. He moved like his body didn't quite fit him today, like he was a ghost wearing a suit of skin. But when he looked up—
Their eyes met.
No words. Just the quiet shock of gravity pulling them toward each other again.
Delorah sat slowly, her backpack thudding dully against the floor. Kit slid into the seat beside her without a sound, close enough to feel but not touch. For a moment, neither said anything.
Then—softly:
"So," Kit whispered, leaning in just enough for only her to hear, "you ready for tonight?"
Delorah's throat tightened. Her fingers curled into her lap.
"I don't think anyone can really be ready for something like this," she murmured.
Kit gave a crooked smile—tired, sardonic, and aching all at once. "Yeah, well… 'something like this' feels like code for a funeral."
A breath escaped her. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.
"I guess we just… survive," she said, voice thinner than she meant it to be.
His eyes lingered on her. Quiet. Intense. Something bruised and searching in them.
"Survive… or fight."
Her pulse jumped. Just a flicker. Just enough.
And for a second—a second suspended in the hush between them—she believed they could.
---
Sebastian stood before the mirror, the chandelier overhead fracturing its glow across the sharp angles of his jaw, the hard line of his brow. His suit was black, tailored, ruthless and fit like armor. Every button fastened. Every fold disciplined. Victory had a dress code, and he wore it like a second skin.
He adjusted his cufflinks with practiced precision. Gold. Discreet. Expensive. A gift from his father, though not in sentiment, just a transactional reminder. Look the part. Win the room.
The decanter clinked as he poured two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass. He didn't need it. He rarely drank before events. But tonight, his hands felt too steady. Too rehearsed. He took a slow sip, letting the burn remind him he was still flesh and not just function.
This wasn't dinner. It was a performance. A conquest.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He didn't answer.
He stared at the screen a moment longer than he meant to half-hoping it was Kit, half-dreading it. Then he locked it, letting the black mirror fade back into silence.
He faced the full-length mirror again. His expression was composed, elegant. Smile tucked just shy of warm.
But something underneath pulled taut.
Delorah.
She'd be there. Wearing fire in her eyes. Making every rule feel like a dare. He wasn't sure if he wanted to impress her… or provoke her. Or both. Part of him, the part his father would praise, saw her as a challenge: another prize to win.
But there was a quieter voice too. One he didn't let speak often.
The voice that remembered—
"Sebby, look! I tied it myself."
Kit had been six, maybe seven, beaming up at him with his tie crooked and oversized, their mother's perfume clinging faintly to the collar where she'd helped him loop it once before.
Sebastian had fixed it without a word. Tighter. Cleaner. He hadn't smiled then, either.
But later, in the car, Kit had said:
"When I grow up, I'm gonna be just like you."
It shouldn't have stung now. Not after everything.
Not after the fire.
Not after all the years he'd spent building walls tall enough to keep even guilt out.
But it did.
He blinked once, slow. Let the whiskey settle.
Buried the memory like everything else.
This is what you were made for.
Be perfect. Be sharp. Be invincible.
He ran a hand over his hair, then straightened his tie. Rehearsed the smile. Made it dangerous.
If there was war tonight, he would be its most charming weapon.
He turned on his heel, leaving the mirror and the ghost of Kit's grin behind.
.
.
.
.
The afternoon faded like bruising light, slow and painful across the school windows. Shadows spilled long and thin down the tiled halls, as if the day itself was unraveling.
Delorah zipped her bag with a final, reluctant tug. The quiet around her rang louder than any bell.
Kit leaned by the lockers like a painting someone had forgotten to hang: too beautiful, too broken, and out of place.
She approached slowly, clutching her sketchbook to her chest. "Ready to go home?"
He gave a lopsided shrug. "No. But I don't think 'ready' is in the cards anymore."
Their eyes locked. That strange silence again—the one that only ever stretched between them. Like the world held its breath when they stood too close.
They didn't walk right away. Didn't move.
Then, his hand brushed hers. Barely. A whisper of skin. But it grounded her more than anything had all day.
"Whatever happens," Kit said, voice low and steady, "Don't forget. I'm here. We're in this."
Her throat caught. "Together," she whispered.
And somehow, the word together felt like both a promise… and a prayer.
.
.
.
.
The LaRoche foyer gleamed with gold. Delorah stood at the edge of it, one heel still hovering over the threshold like her body knew better than to step inside. Everything sparkled in curated ambition. Mirrors doubled the room's size, and gilded sconces lined the walls like quiet judges waiting to rule.
Her mother's voice drifted in from the sitting room, light and rehearsed. "There you are," she said, appearing with a small white box tucked beneath one arm.
Delorah blinked. "What is it?"
Her mother extended the box with careful grace. It was the kind of gesture only women like her could master—gentle, expectant, laced with pressure.
"Sebastian sent this."
The satin ribbon slipped off with barely a sound. Inside, nestled in soft white tissue, was a gown the color of midnight storms. Deep blue, nearly black in certain lights. Silver thread traced the bodice in curling embroidery, like smoke clinging to something once burned.
It was beautiful. It was expensive. It was a mask.
"Sebastian has exquisite taste," her mother said, already halfway up the stairs. "We'll leave at seven sharp."
Delorah didn't follow. She barely breathed. The dress hung from her fingers like it might slice her open if she held it too long.
.
.
.
.
The Honey estate rose from the mist like a promise someone had no intention of keeping.
Delorah sat in the back of the car, fingers curled tightly into the satin folds of her dress. The fabric felt too fine against her palms, too quiet. Her parents murmured in the front seat, trading soft phrases about alliances, presentation, image. The kinds of words meant to prepare a girl like her to smile through anything.
She wasn't listening. Not really.
She was thinking about the way the dress fit her. How it hadn't been chosen by her. And how, deep down, she didn't want Sebastian to see her in it.
She wanted Kit to.
The wrought iron gates creaked open with a mechanical groan, dragging a piece of her resolve with them. The car eased forward along the sweeping drive, headlights catching on columns and windows like a stage being lit. The mansion loomed ahead, too polished, too perfect. Every glowing pane felt like an eye—one that watched too much and cared too little.
Her mother dabbed at her lipstick in the rearview mirror. "Smile," she said, tone gentle but sharpened with meaning. "This is an important evening."
Delorah didn't respond. Her throat was too tight. She could feel her voice hiding somewhere deep in her chest, afraid of what might escape if it came loose.
The car rolled to a stop. A butler in crisp black livery stepped forward and opened the door. Cold air swept in, brushing her skin like a warning. She stepped out slowly, heels tentative on the smooth stone.
And there he was.
Sebastian stood at the top of the stairs, a glass of red wine balanced casually in one hand. His other tucked neatly into the pocket of a tailored coat. His smile was the kind people mistook for charm.
But Delorah had learned to look closer.
It was the kind of smile that hid sharp edges. The kind that might cut you if you held it too long.
"You look stunning," he said, voice warm and practiced.
She nodded once. "Thank you. It fits well."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. "I thought it might." He offered his arm. "Come on. Everyone's waiting."
Delorah hesitated for only a breath before taking it. The fabric of his sleeve felt expensive, stiff beneath her fingers. As they climbed the marble steps together, the heavy doors opened ahead of them with a hush, revealing the grand foyer bathed in gold and shadow.
Sebastian leaned in just enough for her to hear. "Let's give them something to talk about."
And with that, he guided her inside.
Sebastian led her through the gleaming entrance, every surface designed to impress: marble floors, high archways, chandelier light dripping from above like melted gold. The murmur of voices echoed deeper in the house, but the foyer felt still. Too still. Like the moment before something broke.
And then there were footsteps.
A door creaked open across the room, and someone stepped into the light.
Kit.
He moved in from the hallway, backlit by the afternoon sun bleeding through tall windows. Her breath caught.
He was in black. Not like Sebastian's tailored, weaponized elegance. Rather, black that looked thrown on in defiance. His collar slightly crooked, one edge of his shirt untucked like he hadn't cared or hadn't noticed. His hair was tousled, lip bitten, expression unreadable.
But his eyes.
God, his eyes.
Bruised midnight and burning daylight, like he hadn't slept in weeks and still managed to make her feel like the only thing anchoring him to gravity. Her stomach turned. Beautiful, she thought. Then, she hated herself for thinking it here, now, with Sebastian beside her and her parents at her back.
He hadn't even seen her yet.
Sebastian's voice curled into the quiet, cool and amused. "Ah. And here's the prodigal son."
Kit's gaze flicked to him, then shifted to Delorah and stopped.
His breath didn't catch. His posture didn't change. But something behind his eyes fractured, just barely, as he looked her over. The dress. The heels. The perfect packaging chosen by someone else.
Sebastian.
Kit's jaw tightened, but his gaze lingered. And for a flicker of a moment,however much he hated that it was his brother's money,he was still completely undone by how she looked.
Then he spoke.
"I wouldn't dream of missing the show."
Their father emerged from the far hallway, already halfway into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Shall we eat?"
Kit didn't look away from her until the very last second.
. . . . .
The dining room looked like it had been carved out of a royal painting: bathed in candlelight, trimmed in gold, and centered around a table long enough to seat a monarchy. Except no one at this table had ever learned how to break bread without drawing blood.
Delorah found herself placed to Sebastian's right, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne. It clung to the air between them—refined, deliberate. The edge of his tailored jacket brushed her arm each time he shifted, a quiet reminder that he was there and that proximity was never accidental with him.
Across the table, Kit lowered himself into the chair directly facing them. His jaw was set, and his eyes gave nothing away. The collar of his suit still wasn't fixed, and a wrinkle tugged at the sleeve, but somehow it made him seem more grounded than anyone else in the room. Like he hadn't dressed to impress,lonly to survive.
Delorah tried not to stare. She failed.
When their eyes met for the first time since the foyer, it was like hearing a chord she didn't know had been playing in the background, finally resolve. He looked tired. Unshaven. The darkness under his eyes traced every hour he hadn't slept and yet something about it felt almost holy. Like she could follow that exhaustion all the way back to whatever he was trying to hold onto.
She wanted to reach across the table. Just once.
The first course arrived, and plates clinked softly. Conversation sparked like flint—names dropped, dates recalled, legacies boasted. Her parents smiled for the room. Mr. Honey raised his glass for a toast.
Kit didn't lift his.
He didn't speak.
He just watched. Quiet. Coiled. Still there.
Then Sebastian leaned in, voice velvet-soft but pitched just loud enough to slice through the flicker of conversation.
"You really do look perfect tonight."
Clatter.
Kit's fork struck the plate—sharp, jarring, too loud.
The metallic sound ricocheted through the dining room like a bullet that had no target but still demanded attention.
Everything stopped.
Delorah's spine went rigid. Her mother's hand hovered mid-gesture, caught between grace and concern. Mr. Honey didn't blink, only raised his wine glass and took a slow sip.
Kit didn't look up.
"Sorry," he said, voice flat.
Sebastian didn't flinch. If anything, he smiled. Slow, unbothered, the corners of his mouth curling like a fuse that knew exactly when it would detonate.
"No harm done."
The room resumed, cautiously.
A polite laugh from Delorah's mother. The scrape of a knife on porcelain. The hum of someone clearing their throat.
Delorah reached for her glass. Her hand trembled just enough to make the water ripple. She glanced at Kit,just a flick of the eyes—but he was already watching her.
"You didn't have to come," she said softly, barely above the clink of cutlery. "I know how much you hate this."
"I know," Kit murmured. "I wanted to."
The words hung between them like smoke: visible only if you were already choking on it.
Then Sebastian leaned in again.
Closer.
Too close.
"Delorah," Sebastian said, his voice pitched just high enough for the table to catch it. "Maybe you and I could grab coffee sometime."
Kit's spine stiffened. His gaze snapped to Sebastian like a knife to a threat.
Delorah blinked, unsure if she'd misheard. "Why?"
Sebastian tilted slightly toward her, that signature smirk pulling at his mouth like it had nowhere better to be. "To talk. We're going to be seeing more of each other, after all."
Kit didn't hesitate. His voice cut clean through the air.
"She already has someone to talk to."
A pause. Not silence, exactly, but something heavier. The kind of stillness that presses down on your ribs.
Mr. Honey didn't raise his eyes. He didn't need to.
"Adrian," he said calmly, but the weight behind it wasn't calm at all.
A warning.
Sebastian smiled, completely unfazed. "Just being friendly, brother."
Delorah could feel the tension radiating off Kit like heat. Beneath the table, she gently nudged her knee against his. A subtle anchor. A promise that she was still there.
Her hand found his under the linen, slow and deliberate.
He didn't flinch. Didn't let go.
Her mother's voice rose next, airy and tight like something trying too hard to sound casual. "That's a lovely idea. Don't you think, Delorah?"
She turned, startled. "Mom—"
"It's only coffee," her mother said, still smiling, but there was an edge to it. A fracture just beginning to form beneath the gloss.
Sebastian leaned back slightly, letting the moment breathe. "I'd be honored."
Kit's grip tightened beneath the table, his fingers locked with Delorah's like a lifeline. She squeezed back, firmer this time. A silent don't.
But the pressure was building—her ribs tight, her pulse loud. The room felt smaller by the second.
"…Alright," she said at last. Her voice barely carried across the table. "Just coffee."
Kit didn't move.
Not yet.
But Sebastian had already turned slightly toward him, wine glass balanced between two fingers. He smiled faintly, like he was toasting an invisible victory.
"You know," he said lightly, "Celeste asked about you again."
Kit's expression didn't change. But his knuckles turned white around Delorah's hand.
"She's looking forward to dinner next week. Still thinks you're just... shy."
Delorah felt Kit go very still beside her. Not angry. Not trembling. Just... still. Like something inside him had dropped out entirely.
"I need air," he said, voice quiet but strained.
His chair scraped across the marble as he stood. Sharp. Final.
"Adrian Scott—" Mr. Honey's voice snapped through the tension, more command than concern.
But Kit didn't pause.
Didn't look back.
The door clicked shut behind him. Not a slam—something colder. More precise.
Sebastian turned his wine glass slowly in one hand. The candlelight caught the liquid inside, casting a faint red gleam across his fingertips.
"Shame," he murmured. "He missed dessert."
Triumphant.
But somewhere in his smile, something twitched.
A flicker of guilt. Or something close enough to it that he didn't name it.
....
Sebastian twirled the stem of his wine glass, watching the liquid catch the light. The voices around him blurred—stock prices, gala invites, someone's new lake house. Noise. Useless, glittering noise.
Kit's chair sat empty across the table.
A shadow, not a vacancy.
He could still feel the heat of Delorah's arm against his and could still see the flicker of her hesitation before she agreed. Just coffee.
Not a victory. Not really. But close enough to keep him from unraveling completely.
Or so he told himself.
"Sebastian?" Mrs. LaRoche was saying something, and he smiled reflexively, nodding like he'd heard it. Her tone was too sweet. The kind people used to shush children or steer dangerous animals.
Delorah hadn't looked at him since Kit left.
He reached for his wine again, slower this time. His hand trembled faintly, and he stilled it against the table's edge.
This wasn't jealousy. That would imply something petty.
This was... containment.
Control.
Because if he let himself feel the way Kit looked at her,like she was the last real thing left in his world, he might lose the script entirely.
And Sebastian Honey did not lose control.
Not at dinner. Not with the LaRoches.
Not with Delorah sitting beside him, smelling like something worth worshiping.
Not even when Kit walked out again.
Because Kit always walked out.
That was the one part of the play Sebastian could count on.
He smiled again, this one sharper, hollower.
Let him run. Let him brood.
Because tonight? Delorah stayed.
And sometimes, that was enough.
(For now.)
The clink of silverware and brittle laughter filled the room like static. Delorah sat still, her hand now resting in her lap, the phantom shape of Kit's fingers still pressed into her skin.
She didn't look at Sebastian. Not until he leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that it didn't have to fight the noise.
"I wasn't trying to upset him," he said, eyes still on his plate.
She blinked. "You think I believe that?"
A corner of his mouth twitched. "No. But I wanted you to hear it anyway."
She finally glanced his way. He wasn't smiling now—not fully. Something in his expression had shifted. Less mask, more… ache. Like he was trying to remember how to be human.
"He's not the only one who notices you, Delorah," he said, barely audible over the hum of conversation. "He's just the only one reckless enough to say it out loud."
She stared at him, pulse picking up. "What are you doing?"
His fingers toyed with the stem of his glass again. "Honestly? I'm not sure. I thought I was winning. But every time you look at him, I feel like I'm bleeding and don't know where from."
Delorah didn't respond. Couldn't.
She turned back to her plate.
Sebastian let out a breath that wasn't quite a sigh.
"I'll be better company over coffee," he added quietly.
And for once, it didn't sound like a threat.
Just a promise he didn't know how to keep.
....
The car ride home was quieter than the one there. Delorah sat rigid in the back seat, hands folded tightly in her lap like she was afraid of unraveling if she moved. The streetlights passed in slow rhythm, casting flickers of gold across the midnight folds of her dress. In the window, her reflection fractured again and again: split down the middle, scattered across the glass like she was watching pieces of herself disappear into the dark.
No one spoke until the gates of the LaRoche estate creaked open.
"You looked lovely tonight," her mother said at last, her tone light, detached. As if that were all that mattered.
From the driver's seat, her father added, "The Honeys are good people. Aligned. Ambitious. That's what counts."
Delorah didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat had closed around something that didn't have a name.
When they stepped through the front door, the foyer greeted them with its usual icy perfection. The chandelier overhead spilled pale light across the marble, making everything look clean, controlled. Her heels echoed across the floor like accusations.
The dress felt heavier now. As if it had absorbed every glance across the dinner table, every smile that wasn't quite a smile. She could still feel Kit's hand in hers. Still feel the heat of Sebastian's words curling at her ear.
I wasn't trying to upset him.
I feel like I'm bleeding and don't know where from.
Her mother set her purse down with graceful precision, then turned toward her with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Mr. Honey mentioned another dinner. With Kit's fiancée."
The words landed sharp. Too sharp.
"Apparently, she'll be joining next time," her mother continued, as if she hadn't just knocked the wind out of her. "It's good. Shows unity."
Unity. As if this whole thing was a campaign strategy. As if Delorah's feelings—Kit's, anyone's—were just collateral.
From deeper in the house, her father's voice echoed: "This is progress. Don't make it harder than it needs to be."
Don't make it harder.
Don't embarrass us.
Don't feel.
Her mother stepped closer, voice honeyed and hollow. "You did well tonight, sweetheart. Keep it up."
Delorah gave a practiced nod. Her body moved even if her mind stayed behind.
"Goodnight," she murmured, turning away before they could ask more of her.
She climbed the stairs slowly, each step deliberate. Each echo louder than the last, like the house was listening.
Behind her eyes, the night replayed. Kit's fury, the flash of pain in his voice. And Sebastian, strange and steady in the storm. He hadn't pressed, hadn't gloated. Just sat there, glass in hand, eyes too tired for someone supposedly in control.
She didn't trust him.
But she didn't dismiss him either.
Not anymore.
.
.
.
.
Kit sat curled in the high-backed chair by the window, one leg tucked beneath him, the other draped out like he'd forgotten how to sit like a person. The room was dark, save for the faint cityglow bleeding in through the sheer curtains. The journal rested on his lap, closed. Pen in hand. But the page was still blank.
He couldn't write.
Not tonight.
His fingers kept twitching like they were waiting for a signal. A reason. A way to bleed without using a knife.
Then the door opened.
No knock. Just the soft click of the latch and the sound of shoes. Polished. Measured. Authority given a rhythm.
Kit didn't look up.
He knew the steps.
Mr. Honey crossed the threshold like he already owned whatever conversation was about to happen. The door shut behind him with the finality of a courtroom gavel.
"Explain yourself."
Kit stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on his own warped reflection in the glass. Collar askew. Jaw tight. Skin pale from whatever light managed to find him. He looked like a boy trying on grief like a costume.
"There's nothing to explain."
"You embarrassed this family."
That voice—low, silken, sharpened on both ends—never needed volume to strike.
"You embarrassed her," Mr. Honey added, stepping further into the room. "You made me look like a fool in front of people I've invested in for years."
Kit closed his journal. Still didn't turn.
"Maybe you shouldn't bet on people like they're property."
The slap came clean. Practiced. A motion so rehearsed it didn't even raise his father's heart rate.
Kit's head jerked to the side, cheek blooming red as pain burst behind his eyes. He staggered slightly in the chair, catching himself with one hand. Metal hit his tongue. Blood. Or pride. Hard to tell.
He spat into the wastebasket.
Mr. Honey adjusted his cufflinks with surgical calm.
"That was Sebastian's future you disrupted."
Kit wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Didn't realize he needed me silent to succeed."
"You don't get to have things for yourself," his father said, voice now soft and intimate in the way threats sometimes are. "You get what you're told to carry. That's the difference between you and him. He understands weight. You crumble under it."
The journal still lay in Kit's lap. Closed. Empty.
His chest ached. His ribs felt too small for everything curling up inside: rage, shame, the echo of Delorah's voice, the warmth of her hand under the table, the cold sting of being left behind anyway.
He wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or smash the window open with the ashtray and climb out just to breathe.
But he didn't.
He just sat there.
Frozen.
"You'll be at the next dinner," Mr. Honey said, already moving toward the door. "And you'll behave. If you embarrass this family again, I won't be so lenient."
The door shut behind him like a coffin lid.
Kit didn't move.
Only stared at the closed journal in his lap. Like it might one day speak for him if he ever found the strength to open it again.
....
The house had gone still again.
Sebastian stood alone in the empty ballroom, wine glass forgotten on the edge of the piano. He hadn't moved since the last guest left. Not really. Just stared out across the marble like he expected something in it to crack.
He could still feel the ghost of her hand on his sleeve.
Could still see the look Kit gave her.
Could still taste the air when she said yes.
It was supposed to feel like a win.
Instead, it felt... quieter than it should have.
His fingers curled around the edge of the piano. Just enough pressure to stop his hands from shaking.
Then—footsteps. Not heavy, but final.
Mr. Honey entered the room with the weight of a judge and the smile of a knife.
"I saw it," he said calmly.
Sebastian didn't turn.
"Saw what?" he asked, though he already knew.
"The softness."
A beat.
"That moment by the table. The look in your eyes. The pause before you smiled." Mr. Honey stepped closer. "You think I didn't notice?"
Sebastian's throat went dry. "I was playing the part."
"You were getting attached." His father's voice had cooled. "I can forgive a great many things. But not that."
Sebastian turned now. Slowly. "You told me to make her feel safe."
"Safe enough to stay," Mr. Honey said. "Not safe enough to trust you."
Silence swelled between them.
Sebastian held his gaze. "It worked. She said yes."
"To coffee," Mr. Honey snapped. "Not marriage. You think a little dress and a smirk at dinner makes you a king? You want to inherit this family? Act like someone who deserves it."
Sebastian didn't flinch.
But he wasn't fast enough.
The blow came fast—an open palm, harder than expected. Not theatrical. Not rage-driven. Just clean. Measured. A father's correction.
Sebastian blinked once. Then looked away.
"You're lucky I raised you to hide bruises better than your brother," Mr. Honey said. He adjusted his sleeve, already finished with the moment. "Don't waste your chances."
Then he was gone.
Sebastian stood there, the sting still fresh on his face.
No wine. No applause.
Only the hollow echo of someone who couldn't decide if he was furious…
or ashamed that part of him had wanted her to look at him that way.
His fingers tightened on the piano edge until the glass fell—shattering across the keys like a warning.
He didn't move.
Just stood there with his hands braced on the edge of the piano, head bowed like a blade waiting to fall.
And then—
Something old flickered behind his eyes.
He was eleven again.
Standing in the study with a bruise forming under one eye and a book too heavy for his arms.
Mr. Honey had handed it to him like it was a test.
"Do you want to be loved, or do you want to win?"
"Because you can't have both."
He had answered wrong.
Said "Loved."
The slap that time wasn't hard.
Just humiliating.
"That's your mother talking," his father said.
"You're my son. Act like it."
Back in the present, Sebastian's fingers relaxed. Slowly.
He straightened, brushed glass from the front of his shirt, and inhaled.
Cold. Clean. Empty.
The boy inside him curled back down.
The man rose.