The evening draped a somber elegance over Sorrento, the city alive in hues of warm oranges, deep purples, and fleeting golds as the sun dipped below the horizon. Their grand estate stood under the changing sky, a sprawling display of wealth and power, admired by many and visited by tourists who marveled at its intricate architecture and lush gardens. The estate's lights flickered on as dusk settled, casting shadows that seemed to breathe with a life of their own, filling the air with an austere, heavy silence.
Inside, Gaius sat at the dining table, his posture rigid, the picture of a man who saw meals as a matter of pride and display rather than simple nourishment. He was surrounded by opulence: the crystal glassware glinting under the chandelier's light, the table meticulously set with fine silverware, and the quiet hum of an aged, expensive air conditioning system keeping the room cool. The sumptuous roast before him lay untouched, glistening under the soft golden light, and as Gaius sliced into it, the knife made a sharp sound that echoed in the otherwise silent room. He sat alone, his expression indifferent as he ate, the silence between bites as sharp as broken glass.
Ethan's footsteps echoed softly in the entryway. He had just come back from God-knows-where, shoulders hunched, his expression one of barely concealed irritation as he moved with the intent to avoid his father. But as he turned towards the staircase, a cold voice sliced through the stillness.
"Ethan," Gaius called out, his voice commanding, leaving no room for dismissal. Ethan halted mid-step, his grip tightening on the banister, a flash of reluctance in his eyes as he looked back. Every part of him screamed to just keep walking, to ignore the summon, but he let out a short, sharp breath and made his way back, standing a few feet away from his father's place at the table.
"Yes?" he replied, his tone clipped, his gaze set just over Gaius's shoulder, avoiding direct eye contact.
Gaius didn't look up. He took his time cutting a piece of meat, savoring it before finally glancing up at his son with a cold, assessing gaze. "Sit," he said simply, gesturing to the chair across from him. "It's dinner time, after all."
Ethan shifted uncomfortably, but he remained standing, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "I'm not hungry," he said, his voice steady, though the words came out strained.
Gaius let out a soft, disdainful hum, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin. "I don't care if you're hungry or not," he replied, his tone smooth, almost dismissive. "But I won't have my son looking pale and thin, as if I can't even keep him well-fed. People would talk." He took a slow sip of his wine, eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of the glass as he watched Ethan. "And I don't tolerate gossip."
Ethan felt his chest tighten with the familiar mix of frustration and resentment. He forced himself to remain composed, exhaling through his nose, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'm fine," he said quietly, his voice firm. "You don't need to worry."
Gaius's mouth twisted into a faint sneer. "Fine, you say?" He swirled his wine glass, the dark liquid catching the light as he studied his son, his gaze unrelenting. "If you're too good to eat at my table, then perhaps you're too good to stay under my roof as well. If you can't respect me in something as simple as a meal, maybe you should find somewhere else to sleep tonight."
Ethan froze, the words slicing through him like a knife. He stared at his father, disbelief flickering in his gaze, his heart hammering in his chest as he grappled with the cold, casual cruelty of it. He opened his mouth, searching for something to say, some argument to throw back, but no words came.
Instead, he swallowed, forcing down the sting of his father's dismissal. Straightening his shoulders, he let out a short, bitter laugh. "Fine," he said, his voice barely a whisper, but the steel in it was unmistakable. He turned on his heel, the silence of his departure as loud as a shout.
"Where are you going?" Gaius's voice cut through the air, sharper than the knife still resting on the table.
Ethan paused at the threshold, anger boiling just beneath the surface. "Out," he shot back, his words laced with defiance. "I don't have to stay here and listen to this."
"You will not speak to me that way!" Gaius thundered, rising from his seat, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. The anger that had simmered beneath his cool exterior erupted, filling the space between them with palpable tension. "You have no idea how difficult it is to keep this family together, to maintain our name in this city. And this is how you repay me?"
Ethan turned to face him fully, his breath coming quick as his emotions surged. "Repay you? You've never cared about me, only about appearances! You want a perfect little puppet to show off at your events, but I'm not that person. I can't live under your shadow anymore!"
Gaius stepped forward, the distance between them shrinking. "This isn't about me, Ethan. It's about you and what you've become! You think this is just about family pride? You are ruining everything I've worked for!"
Ethan felt his resolve begin to crack, the weight of his father's words pressing down on him. "Maybe I don't want to be part of this!" he shouted, the fight leaving him as quickly as it had ignited. "Maybe I'd rather be out there, alone, than live under your constant scrutiny!"
The silence that followed was heavy, like a thick fog settling in the room. Gaius's expression faltered, confusion flickering across his features before settling back into a mask of anger. "Then go," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "If you think you can make it on your own, then do it. But don't expect me to come running back when you fail."
With those words, Ethan felt as if the ground had been pulled from under him. He stood at the precipice of his father's anger, teetering on the edge of an abyss he had never wished to confront. He felt the familiar sting of tears prick at the corners of his eyes but swallowed them back, unwilling to show weakness.
"Fine," he repeated, his voice steadier now, carrying the weight of a decision made in the heat of the moment. "I'll leave. I don't need your approval or your pity."
With that, he turned on his heel, pushing through the grand double doors and stepping into the lavish hallway that had felt more like a prison than a home. The air was thick with the unspoken words and shattered expectations, but he pressed forward, leaving behind the tumultuous echoes of his father's voice, ready to carv
e out his own path—whatever it may bring.