Chapter 3
The dining room was silent except for the faint clinking of silverware and the distant hum of the mansion's central heating. Dinner had just been served — lamb chops, mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables — the kind of gourmet meal Carl had tasted a hundred times without ever feeling full.
Grozel, the old maid who had served the family since before Carl could speak, walked in with a wine bottle and gently placed it beside Yvonne's glass. Her hands trembled slightly from age, but her posture remained dignified, calm.
"Finally," Yvonne muttered under her breath. "You're getting slower every year."
Carl looked up sharply from his plate. "She's doing her best, Mom. You didn't need to talk to her like that."
Yvonne didn't even glance at him. "I wasn't talking to you, Carl."
"You were rude," he said firmly. "Grozel's been here longer than I've been alive. You could try a little respect."
Before Yvonne could respond, his father, sitting at the head of the long polished table, set down his fork with a deliberate clink.
"Carl. That's enough," he said in that deep, controlled tone that always came just before a scolding. "Don't speak to your mother like that. She's not the one being disrespectful. Don't take the maid's side over your family."
Carl blinked. "I'm not 'taking sides.' I'm asking her not to be cruel."
"You're being ungrateful. And frankly, rude," his father replied, his voice rising. "You live in this house, you enjoy every comfort, and you have the nerve to lecture us about respect?"
"Comfort?" Carl scoffed. He dropped his fork and leaned back in his chair. "You think this house, this table, all this — money — replaces everything else? Do you even know who I am beyond the name you gave me?"
His father's brow tightened. "Watch yourself."
"No," Carl stood now, the chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. "I'm done watching. I'm done pretending like everything's normal."
Yvonne stared at him, wine glass paused mid-air. His father's gaze hardened, but Carl didn't care.
"You don't even remember, do you?" Carl's voice was quiet now, shaking. "Yesterday was my birthday."
Silence.
His mother blinked slowly. His father said nothing.
"Grozel did," Carl continued. "She made me a gift."
He swallowed and laughed bitterly. "You two didn't even say a word. Not a message. Not a call. Not even a post-it note on the fridge. Just silence. Like every year."
He looked between the two of them. "All you do is send money and expect that to fix everything. Well, guess what? I'm not some investment you can throw cash at and forget exists. I'm your son. But maybe that doesn't mean anything to you."
He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and turned.
"Where do you think you're going?" his father barked.
"Out," Carl said without looking back. "Somewhere I don't feel invisible."
And just like that, the door shut behind him, echoing through the quiet, perfect mansion.
---
Carl walked into the bar quietly, his eyes scanning the dim space filled with pulsing lights and low music. It was his first time in a gay bar. He had always wanted to visit one, but until yesterday, he hadn't been of age.
Now he was eighteen — legally allowed. Not that it mattered. No one had even said happy birthday.
He made his way to the bar counter and sat down.
"One whiskey," he said to the bartender, who gave him a once-over but said nothing. Carl downed it in seconds, then ordered another. The sharp burn in his throat felt good — better than silence, better than home.
After a while, a man with a beard walked over and sat beside him. He smiled confidently, leaning close.
"You're new here," the man said, voice thick with intent. "First time?"
Carl just nodded.
The man chuckled, brushing his fingers too close to Carl's arm. "Don't worry, I don't bite... unless you ask."
Carl gave a small laugh, more out of awkwardness than interest. But the man kept talking, and drinking, and soon tried to touch him again — this time, more deliberate.
Carl's head was starting to spin. His stomach churned. He didn't feel right.
Something's off.
Then it hit him — hard. The nausea surged up too fast. He turned to the side and threw up — right on the man's chest.
Gasps echoed around them as the man jumped back, furious.
"What the hell?!"
Carl could barely hear the shouting. His ears rang. His vision blurred. He felt a hand shove him — the man pushed him off the stool, and Carl hit the floor.
He tried to get up, but his legs wouldn't move right.
The room spun.
Then — a voice.
Firm, low, familiar.
"Hey. He's with me."
Carl blinked slowly, squinting through the haze. He thought he was hallucinating.
But there he was — Mr. Robert Ashton, in a dark coat and glasses, stepping through the crowd. He crouched beside Carl.
"Come on, get up," he said gently, sliding one arm under Carl's. "I've got you."
Carl mumbled something incoherent. Robert didn't press.
He helped Carl up, steadying him as they walked outside. Robert opened the back seat of his car and guided him in. Carl slumped against the seat, eyes fluttering shut.
That was the last thing he remembered.