"Mom... Mom... MOM!"
Dylan shouted, drenched in sweat and gasping for air as he jolted awake from a painful and terrifying nightmare. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and glanced at the clock beside his bed—it was only three in the morning. The room was dark and silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner.
The nightmare clung to him like smoke. He could still hear his mother's voice fading in the distance, see her lying pale and fragile on the hospital bed. He tried to blink it away, but the image lingered, sharper than reality.
Leaning back against his bed, Dylan closed his eyes tightly, trying to calm his racing mind.
"I miss you, Mom," he whispered softly to himself, his voice trembling. The emptiness in his chest felt heavier in the quiet of the night. He wished she was there to hold him, to tell him everything would be okay.
The silence around him was deafening. The moonlight spilling through the curtains only seemed to remind him of how alone he was. The bed felt too wide, the house too big, every shadow in the corners stretching into something unfamiliar. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, as though it could fill the void his mother had left.
Dylan was fifteen years old when his mother died from cancer. Four years have passed, but for Dylan, it still feels like it all happened just yesterday. The pain hasn't gone away.
He tossed and turned, unable to find peace. Sleep toyed with him, hovering close but never staying, until finally exhaustion dragged him under again.
It was almost noon when Dylan was abruptly awakened by a loud knocking on his bedroom door. He had no idea he had fallen back asleep after waking up earlier that morning. Still groggy, he rubbed his eyes and hurriedly got out of bed and made his way to the door.
When he opened the door, Dylan's shock was evident on his face, but he quickly masked it to avoid showing it. Standing before him was Wilson, his father's personal assistant. Dylan knew that wherever his father was, Wilson would be nearby—hence his surprise.
Wilson was always polished, his shirts neatly pressed, his glasses perched perfectly on his nose. He carried himself with a kind of precision, as if every movement was rehearsed. For Dylan, though, Wilson's presence was a reminder of his father's world—the world of business meetings, private jets, and boardrooms. A world he never felt he belonged to.
Wilson had been more than just an assistant; he was Dylan's part-time guardian, driver, and even his first chess teacher. There was a time when Wilson felt like family—someone who remembered his favorite snacks, helped him with school projects, and covered for him when he came home past curfew.
But things shifted subtly over time. As Dylan grew older and his father's absences grew longer, Wilson's role changed. He became less of a companion and more of a shadow—always present, always polite, but always reporting back to his father. His care was still there, hidden beneath layers of duty and loyalty, but it no longer felt like it belonged solely to Dylan. Now, it felt like even Wilson's kindness came with conditions set by his father.
"Sorry to bother you, Sir Dylan. Your father just arrived this morning. He's currently in the kitchen with his fiancé. He's asking you to join them for lunch," Wilson said politely.
Dylan furrowed his brow, and his expression darkened the moment he heard the word "fiancé." The simple word stirred a mix of emotions within him. A heavy feeling suddenly settled over his chest, as if a storm had passed through his mind.
"You can go ahead," Dylan said quietly. Wilson gave a slight bow before turning to leave. "I'll be down shortly."
Dylan closed the door slowly, his hand tightening on the knob until his knuckles whitened. His father had returned, unannounced, like he always did—sweeping into the house and expecting everything to fall into place.
But this time, he wasn't alone. The mention of a "fiancé" echoed in Dylan's head like a cruel joke.
The dining room was bright, sunlight spilling in from the wide glass windows. The long oak table was set neatly, plates gleaming, silverware aligned with precision. A faint aroma of roasted chicken and herbs hung in the air, but it did little to settle Dylan's unease.
While eating, Xavier couldn't help but watch his son closely. It struck him that he hadn't noticed how much Dylan had grown. Time had slipped by too quickly, and somewhere between long flights and endless meetings abroad, his boy had turned into someone he barely recognized. Things had changed even more after his mother passed away—Dylan had closed himself off little by little, his warmth and openness fading until all that remained were guarded stares and heavy silences.
Xavier felt the weight of the distance between them—one that wasn't just about miles but about years lost. Because of his work, he was rarely home long enough to be part of Dylan's days, and now, sitting across from him, he realized just how wide the gap had become.
The clinking of cutlery against porcelain was the only sound filling the room. The silence between father and son was heavy, suffocating, interrupted only by the occasional polite murmur from Anna.
Dylan hardly touched his food. His appetite had fled the moment he saw her sitting at the table, smiling with ease beside his father as if she had always belonged there. Her hair was neatly tied back, her voice soft, her presence composed—but to Dylan, it felt like an intrusion, a stranger trespassing on memories that should never be replaced.
Finally, Xavier set his utensils down carefully, his voice still calm but with an unmistakable edge.
"By the way, my schedule at the company is quite light these days, and most of my appointments are here in the country, so I'll be staying here at home for a while. Your Aunt Anna will also be living here from now on—especially since the wedding is coming up soon. It only makes sense for her to move in."
Dylan froze mid-bite, his face darkened at his father's words. The air around him seemed to thicken, pressing down on his chest.
"Do whatever you want. I'll stay in my apartment. I don't want to live in this house with you," he said flatly.
"It hasn't even been that long since Mom passed, and you've already replaced her. And now you're letting her live here, in our own home," Dylan added, forcing another spoonful of food into his mouth, though it tasted like ash.
The discomfort on Anna's face was evident when she heard that from Xavier's son. She set down the spoon she was holding and gently placed her hand over Xavier's, which was clenched tight in anger.
"It's okay. I can always stay in one of our other houses. Let's just give Dylan some space. I know he still hasn't fully accepted me," Anna said with a faint smile, her gaze shifting from Xavier to Dylan.
"I won't allow it. I make the rules in this house. Whether he likes it or not, your Aunt Anna will live here," Xavier declared angrily.
Dylan finally stopped eating, the clatter of his spoon and fork echoing against the plate as he set them down. His chair scraped lightly against the floor as he pushed back and rose to his feet, his movements stiff and brimming with resentment.
"Your house?" he spat, his voice tight with anger. "So you still remember you have a house here? Too bad you didn't think of that when Mom was sick—when she needed you most—but you weren't there."
His words cut through the air like a blade, cold and merciless. Without waiting for a response, Dylan turned his back and walked briskly toward his room, each step pounding with unspoken rage.
The hallway felt endless as he stormed down, each framed photograph on the walls—family portraits, vacations, holidays—mocking him. They looked like lies now, frozen smiles that hid the cracks no one wanted to admit.
Xavier's brows furrowed, his face darkened as his son's words sank deep. Fury surged through him, and with a sharp motion, he slammed his palm against the table, rattling the dishes in helpless anger.
Anna flinched at the sound, but she didn't speak. Instead, she glanced toward the hallway where Dylan had disappeared, her eyes soft with pity—but also with something unreadable, something Dylan wouldn't have trusted even if he saw it.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Dylan didn't head straight to his room.
Almost without thinking, his steps slowed as he passed her door—still closed, just as it had been for years. He didn't go in. He couldn't. But he paused there, his hand hovering near the knob as memories washed over him.
He remembered his mother's loud, real laugh—the kind that made her snort sometimes. How she'd hum old love songs while cooking, even if she forgot half the lyrics. How she always smelled like gardenias and warm bread.
Then he thought of Anna. Quiet. Composed. Perfectly polite. She smelled like expensive perfume and new handbags. Her smiles were gentle, but measured. Nothing like Mom, he thought bitterly. Nothing like home.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled his hand back and walked away. He couldn't stay here. Not with a stranger living in his mother's house. Not with his father trying to replace the irreplaceable.
Minutes later, the low growl of his car engine broke the stillness of the driveway as Dylan pulled out, the sun still hanging high in the sky. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, jaw set, his father's words echoing in his head.
He drove aimlessly at first, the city blurring past his windows, until frustration pushed him to the side of the road. For a long moment, he just sat there, staring out at nothing.
Finally, he grabbed his phone, scrolling through his contacts. His thumb hovered for a second before pressing call.
"Bro, it's me," he said flatly when Jake answered.
"Let's go out later tonight. I need a drink." His voice was hoarse but steady.
"Yeah, bring Cholo too. I'll send you the place."