Chris stepped into Skyler's luxury apartment, London's skyline glinting through the tall windows. It was 5:54 p.m. too early for Skyler to be passed out on the couch, her hair spilling across a cushion. "I thought I was early," he muttered, his faint smile fading.
An open file lay on the coffee table, papers scattered. "She should really not leave this lying around," he said under his breath, stepping closer. The name on the top sheet stopped him: Dean Goodwin. Six years ago, he'd seen Skyler and Dean's friendship in Santa Monica electric, unspoken, impossible to ignore. He pulled out his phone, snapping photos of the pages medical reports, therapy notes. His thumb hovered over the screen after the last shot. For a second, guilt flickered then vanished. Skyler didn't stir.
Across town, the villa's iron gates cast long shadows in the fading light. Dean stood in his childhood room, the opulence suffocating. A knock broke the silence. "Dean, dinner," Aunt Mary called, her voice warm but eyes cautious. To her surprise, he opened the door without resistance, his face unreadable. The boy she once knew was gone, replaced by a stranger.
He descended the grand staircase to the poolside dining area, the evening air cool against the villa's marble columns. The family table was set, his father at the head, Rina his insufferable sister flashing a smug grin, and the woman who claimed to be his mother avoiding his gaze. Dean took his seat, the clink of cutlery sharp in the tense silence.
His father, forcing a smile, tried to play normal. "So, how was everyone's day?"
Rina launched into her shopping trip sold-out handbags, rude clerks her voice dripping with woe. Their mother nodded absently, her eyes darting to Dean, who ate quietly, his fork moving mechanically. He chewed in silence, every bite mechanical. If he kept his face still enough, maybe they wouldn't see how much he wanted to leave. Rina, undeterred, dangled a car key with a flourish. "Ferrari F60 America," she bragged, her grin widening.
Their father's brows shot up. "Rina, dear, where did you get that car?"
She beamed. "It cost over $3.8 million."
"Where did you get the money?" His tone sharpened, eyes narrowing.
Rina's smile faltered, then turned venomous. "I asked Mom. Unlike my brother, I don't dip into what doesn't belong to me." She shot Dean a pointed look.
Dean's fork paused, but his face stayed calm, unreadable. His father's gaze flicked to him, searching for a reaction, but Dean resumed eating. Their mother's hand moved a small gesture but Rina's eyes flashed with defiance. "Why should I censor myself to pamper the mental case known as my brother?"
Their father's face darkened, jaw tight. Dean finished his plate, stood, and turned to leave. Rina slammed her fork down. "Can't even handle the truth," she sneered.
"Rina, that's enough!" their father roared, slamming the table. The glassware rattled, and Rina flinched, her bravado shaken.
Dean paused, a faint smile curling his lips. "Like always, a little too late," he said, his voice low, cutting. His father froze, unable to argue, silenced by the truth in Dean's words.
"Dean, what's that supposed to mean?" his mother called, her voice thin, desperate. He walked away, her words dissolving into the air.
Rina's face flushed with rage. She grabbed a plate and hurled it after him. It sailed past Dean, smashing against the wall with a loud crash, shards scattering across the marble. "Yo, Mom is talking to you!" she shouted.
He didn't turn. "It didn't occur to me that I still had a mother," he said, voice calm, final. The table fell silent. Even the pool stopped rippling.