The Norwood mansion loomed on the outskirts of the city, a sprawling estate of glass and stone that blended modern minimalism with old-world grandeur. Byano pulled into the driveway in his sleek electric sedan, the engine humming softly to a stop. It was family dinner night, a ritual he'd insisted on despite the growing fractures. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, as if nature itself was trying to soften the evening's edges.
Inside, the aroma of roasted lamb and garlic wafted from the kitchen, courtesy of their private chef. Byano loosened his tie, shedding the day's corporate armor. Victoria was in the living room, perched on a velvet sofa, scrolling through her tablet. She looked up, her once-vibrant blue eyes now sharp with calculation. "You're late," she said, not bothering with a greeting.
"Traffic," he lied smoothly, though the drive had been clear. Truth was, he'd lingered at the office, dreading this.
The children arrived soon after. Elena first, her practical SUV crunching gravel. She entered with a hug for Byano, her energy a balm. "Dad, the gala looked amazing. Raised a ton, I bet."
"Enough to make a difference," he replied, pride swelling. Elena's fashion line, EcoThreads, was gaining traction, her designs gracing runways from Milan to LA. She was independent, yes, but she sought his advice, treating him as a partner rather than a bank.
Sophia followed, her vintage convertible roaring up. She burst in with a canvas under her arm, her wild curls tied back. "For you, Dad. Inspired by last night's lights." The painting was abstract, swirls of gold and shadow, capturing the gala's essence.
Byano admired it. "Beautiful, Soph. It'll go in the study."
Marcus was last, slouching in from his wing of the house. He mumbled a hello, eyes downcast, his frame thin under baggy clothes. Depression had gripped him since college dropout two years ago, the pressure of being Byano's son crushing him. Therapy helped sporadically, but relapses were frequent.
They gathered at the dining table, crystal gleaming under chandelier light. Conversation flowed unevenly. Elena shared business updates: a new partnership with a recycled fabric supplier. "It's sustainable and scalable. What do you think, Dad?"
"Sounds promising. Run the numbers by Harlan; he'll spot any pitfalls."
Victoria interjected, her voice laced with sarcasm. "Always business. Can't we talk about something else? Like how Marcus is doing."
Marcus stiffened, fork pausing. "I'm fine, Mom."
"Are you? You look like you haven't slept." Victoria's concern felt performative, a way to needle Byano for not "fixing" their son.
Byano shot her a warning glance. "Marcus, how's the new therapist?"
"Okay," he muttered. "We talked about... stuff."
Sophia jumped in. "Hey, Marc, want to collaborate on an art piece? Your poetry with my visuals."
He shrugged, but a flicker of interest showed.
As dinner progressed, tensions simmered. Victoria complained about the chef's seasoning, then pivoted to her latest "needs"—a trip to the Riviera, new jewelry. "Byano, the Amex is maxed again."
He sighed. "We'll discuss it later."
"Why? Afraid the kids will see how stingy you've become?"
Elena rolled her eyes. "Mom, please."
The evening devolved into familiar patterns: Victoria's resentment bubbling over Byano's long hours, his "neglect." He reflected on their history—her impoverished childhood in a rundown apartment, fostering a hunger for security that morphed into greed. But her neglect of the kids, using them as leverage, was unforgivable.
Marcus excused himself early, retreating to his room. Byano followed later, knocking softly. "Son, talk to me."
Inside, Marcus's space was dim, posters of forgotten bands peeling. "It's just... everything. You're this icon, and I'm... nothing."
"You're my son. That's enough." But words felt hollow against the depression's tide.
Back downstairs, Victoria cornered him. "We need to talk about us. This isn't working."
He knew what was coming—the divorce specter. But for now, the family portrait held, cracked but intact.
Cliffhanger: A late-night call from Harlan—trouble brewing in the boardroom.