THE MEETING
The Black estate hadn't changed.
Still cold.
Still grand.
Still suffocating.
Rayden walked in like he owned the ground beneath it.
Because technically—
He did.
The staff bowed slightly.
No warmth.
Just protocol.
He entered the study without waiting to be announced.
His father stood near the fireplace.
Older.
Sharper.
Still composed.
"Rayden," his father said calmly.
"Father."
No handshake.
No smile.
They sat across from each other like negotiators.
Not family.
The conversation started as business.
Expansion.
Assets.
Foreign partnerships.
Then—
His father leaned back.
"You've handled the company well."
Rayden didn't react.
"I had no choice."
A pause.
"And the marriage?" his father continued.
"Strategic."
"Is it?"
Rayden's gaze sharpened.
"Yes."
His father studied him carefully.
"I met the boy already you know."
Smyle.
Rayden didn't respond.
"He's softer than I expected."
The words were light.
But loaded.
Rayden's jaw tightened.
"He is irrelevant to corporate operations."
His father smiled faintly.
"Everything connected to you is relevant."
There it was.
The quiet warning.
Rayden leaned forward slightly.
"If you intend to imply anything—"
"I imply nothing," his father cut in smoothly. "I merely observe."
A pause.
Then the blade slid in.
"You were emotional as a child as well."
Rayden went still.
"I grew out of it."
"Did you?"
Silence.
His father continued, voice calm.
"You used to make accusations."
Rayden's hands clenched subtly.
"That was years ago."
"You were mistaken then."
Rayden stood abruptly.
The chair scraped slightly against the floor.
"I was eleven."
His father's expression didn't change.
"You were unstable."
The word hit.
Not loud.
But precise.
Rayden's breathing shifted.
Slow.
Measured.
Controlled.
"I have a meeting," Rayden said coldly.
His father stood as well.
"You've always had a temper."
Rayden's eyes darkened.
"And you've always mistaken silence for obedience."
A beat.
Dangerous.
His father's voice lowered slightly.
"Careful."
Rayden straightened his jacket.
"I am not fourteen anymore."
And he walked out.
But the words followed him anyway.
You were unstable.
You imagined things.
You were emotional.
Just like that night.
Just like that slap.
Just like—
No.
He shut it down.
EVENING — 10:47 PM
The penthouse was quiet.
Smyle was half-asleep on the couch.
The door opened.
He smelled it before he saw him.
Alcohol.
Strong.
Rayden didn't drink.
Not like this.
Smyle sat up immediately.
"…Rayden?"
Rayden walked in slowly.
Tie loosened.
Eyes darker than usual.
He didn't look at Smyle.
Just walked past him.
Smyle stood.
"You're drunk."
Silence.
"Did something happen?"
Rayden let out a soft, humorless laugh.
"Nothing happened."
That tone.
Smyle followed him toward the bedroom.
"Hey."
Rayden stopped walking.
Still facing away.
"Did he say something?"
A long silence.
Then—
"Yes."
It wasn't angry.
It wasn't explosive.
It was exhausted.
Smyle stepped closer.
"What did he say?"
Rayden turned.
And for the first time—
His composure cracked.
Not fully.
Just a fracture.
"He said I was unstable."
The word sounded different coming from him.
Quieter.
Almost younger.
Smyle's chest tightened.
"What?"
Rayden laughed softly again.
"I was eleven when my mother died."
The sentence came out flat.
But his voice was thinner now.
"He remarried three years later."
Smyle didn't interrupt.
"He said I imagined things."
Rayden's breathing was uneven now.
"He said I accused her unfairly."
Smyle's voice was steady.
"Accused her of what?"
Rayden swallowed.
"My father changed after she came."
His eyes were glassy now.
"He stopped listening."
A pause.
"He started hitting."
The word barely audible.
Smyle froze.
Rayden looked away.
"I tried to tell him something was wrong."
His voice shook once.
Just once.
"He said I was jealous."
Silence filled the room.
Thick.
Heavy.
"When he left," Rayden continued, staring at nothing, "he didn't even argue with me."
A tear slipped down before he could stop it.
He didn't wipe it.
"He just left."
Fourteen years old.
Alone.
Rayden let out a broken breath.
"I waited for a call for months."
His voice cracked now.
Unmistakable.
"He never called."
Smyle didn't move closer.
Didn't touch him yet.
He just listened.
Rayden's hands were trembling.
"I built everything without him."
His voice was shaking harder now.
"And today he told me I was unstable."
The word shattered something.
Rayden's knees weakened slightly.
Smyle stepped forward instantly.
Catching him before he hit the floor.
And that's when it happened.
Rayden broke.
Not loudly.
Not screaming.
Just—
Collapsed into him.
Forehead against Smyle's shoulder.
Breathing uneven.
Silent tears.
Years of restraint finally slipping.
"I was eleven," he whispered.
Like that fact alone explained everything.
Smyle wrapped his arms around him.
Firm.
Grounding.
No sarcasm.
Just solid.
"You were a child," Smyle said softly.
Rayden's grip tightened.
Like he was afraid to let go.
And for the first time—
He wasn't the powerful CEO , Nor a mafia boss.
He wasn't strategic.
He wasn't controlled.
He was just a boy who had never been protected.
And Smyle didn't say "I love you."
Didn't promise anything dramatic.
He just held him.
But now Rayden's weight fully gave in.
Not just leaning.
Not just resting.
Collapsing.
Smyle tightened his hold instantly, steadying him before they both fell.
"Easy," Smyle murmured.
Rayden's hands fisted into the fabric of Smyle's shirt like he needed something solid to exist.
His breathing was uneven.
Not loud sobbing.
Just fractured.
"I wasn't wrong," Rayden whispered hoarsely.
Smyle didn't interrupt.
"I wasn't unstable."
"I know," Smyle replied quietly.
Rayden shook his head against his shoulder.
"You don't know."
His voice trembled.
"She used to bring him tea every night."
Smyle stiffened slightly.
"My father never drank tea before she came."
The words were scattered now.
Disjointed.
"But after… every night."
Rayden swallowed.
"He changed."
His fingers tightened.
"He stopped questioning her. Stopped listening to me."
A shaky breath.
"I told him something was wrong."
Smyle's voice stayed calm.
"What was wrong?"
Rayden pulled back slightly, but didn't fully let go.
His eyes were red now.
Glossy.
"She would lock his study door. I once saw her crush something into the cup."
His jaw clenched.
"When I told him, he said I was jealous. Me jealous?!?!? I loved him more than anything."
Smyle felt anger rising in his own chest.
But he kept his tone steady.
"And then?"
Rayden laughed weakly.
"He slapped me."
Silence.
"Not just once."
The words barely came out.
"He said I was trying to destroy his happiness."
Smyle's arms tightened around him.
"You were eleven," he repeated.
Rayden's breathing hitched.
"She wanted her son to inherit everything."
There it was.
"She said I was too emotional to lead."
A tear slid down his face again.
"She said I was weak."
Smyle lifted a hand and wiped it without thinking.
Rayden didn't even react to the touch.
Like he was too far inside the memory.
"My nanny knew," Rayden whispered.
"Her name was Mira."
His voice softened on the name.
"She was the only one who believed me."
Smyle guided him gently toward the couch.
They sat.
But Rayden still held onto him.
"She tried to tell my father too," Rayden continued. "He sent her away for a week."
His breathing trembled again.
"When she came back, she told me to stay quiet."
A pause.
"She said powerful women don't lose without fighting."
Smyle's jaw tightened.
"What happened to her?"
Rayden's body went rigid.
"She fell down the stairs."
The words were hollow.
"They said it was an accident."
Silence.
Rayden's voice dropped lower.
"She never missed a step in that house."
Smyle's fingers curled slightly.
"You think—"
"I know," Rayden cut in, voice suddenly sharp.
Then softer.
"I just couldn't prove it."
His breathing grew unstable again.
Another tear.
"He didn't even look back. To the son who he loved the most When he left"
Smyle felt Rayden's grip tighten again like he was bracing against something.
"I thought if I became strong enough… if I rebuilt everything…" Rayden whispered, "he would regret it."
A broken breath left him.
"But he still looks at me like I was the problem."
The last of his composure snapped.
His shoulders shook.
Not violently.
Just enough.
Enough to show how long this had been buried.
"I waited for him to choose me," Rayden said, voice barely audible.
"He never did."
That wasn't anger.
That was the real wound.
Smyle didn't try to fix it.
He just pulled Rayden closer.
Let him hide his face against his chest.
And for once—
Rayden didn't fight the comfort.
He didn't pull away.
He didn't rebuild the walls.
He just stayed there.
Breathing uneven.
Holding on.
Like he was tired of standing alone.
After a long time, his voice came again.
Quiet.
"Don't tell me I was weak."
Smyle's reply was immediate.
"You survived."
A pause.
"That's not weakness."
Rayden didn't answer.
But his grip loosened slightly.
The trembling eased.
Eventually, exhaustion took over.
His breathing slowed.
Still holding onto Smyle.
Asleep.
Smyle stayed there.
Because tonight wasn't about contracts.
Or anniversaries.
Or strategy.
It was about a boy who had been told he imagined his own pain.
And finally—
Someone believed him.