Chapter Thirty
Benson
Petoskey, Michigan
Benson spent the morning at the long boardroom table at the family company.
His voice was punctuated by the gentle hum of the overhead lights as he discussed rent adjustments and winter subsidies with the board.
It was routine, but necessary—he believed in fairness, in keeping homes warm and affordable, especially during the holidays.
By the time he returned home, the sky had dimmed to a soft gray, and the house was still.
He settled at the dining room table, pen in hand, and continued writing Christmas wishes for tenants and staff.
Each note was personal, a loving gesture to remind people they mattered.
The doorbell rang just as he was finishing a card for Mrs. Ellison, who’d lost her husband in the spring. He stood fiddling with his tie and opened the door. His father stood there, stiff-backed and unreadable.
Benson let him in without a word, guiding him to the kitchen and offering a drink—bourbon, neat, the way his father liked it. The silence between them was taut, but Benson had learned to navigate it. Or so he thought.
“You’re dating a prostitute,” his father said, voice cold and clipped.
Benson blinked, stunned. “You don’t even know who I was seeing.”
“Kyle Foster,” his father snapped. “An orphan turned whore. He danced at the Velvet Room. He’s only twenty-two.”
The words hit like ice water. Benson’s breath caught in his throat. “How do you know his name?”
“Logan looked through your phone,” his father said, unapologetic. “I had him investigated. You can do better than that.”
Benson’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
The betrayal burned hot—his brother, rifling through his phone like a thief in the night.
His father, weaponizing that information with cruel precision.
They hadn’t asked. They hadn’t cared. They’d judged Kyle without knowing him, without understanding the gentleness in his voice, the way he listened, the way he made Benson feel seen.
“You need to leave,” Benson said, voice low and steady. “I won’t discuss Kyle with you.”
His father scoffed, but Benson didn’t flinch. He stood firm, the ache in his chest sharp and rising.
As the door closed behind his father, Benson leaned against it, breathing hard.
Rage simmered beneath his skin—at Logan, for violating his privacy, for handing over Kyle’s name like a weapon.
At his father, for reducing a person to a label, for thinking love could be measured by pedigree or reputation.
Kyle was more than what they saw. More than a past, more than a job, more than their narrow definitions of worth.
Benson felt protective, furious, and deeply wounded. Not just for Kyle, but for himself—for the years spent trying to earn his family’s respect, only to be met with contempt the moment he stepped outside their expectations.
He returned to the dining room, sat down, and stared at the half-written card. His hand trembled as he picked up the pen again.
This year, he thought Christmas would be about truth. About choosing love, even when it wasn’t understood. Especially then.
Della came rushing down the stairs and raced into the dining room. She had been upstairs vacuuming. “Why was Grandpa yelling at you?”
“He accused Kyle of being an orphan turned whore. And guess how he found out his name?”
“How?” Her eyes opened wider, as though they couldn’t believe what they were seeing and hearing.
“Your father went through my phone and told Grandpa. And of course, he investigated Kyle.”
“Just like when you two were kids. He’s such a jerk.”
“Exactly. From the day I was born, his mission in life was to erase me from the family. Selfish bastard!” His anger deepened, and with it, his voice grew louder.
“It was the gay thing,” Della said.
“Not when we were kids. He hated me from the day I was born. Didn’t want to be replaced. We were never friends. Remember I told you when he was three and I was two, Grandma had to give us separate rooms because we fought consistently.”
“I forgot about that. Grandma tells it like a professional narrator.” She smiled.
“And it was your black boyfriend that got you kicked out. His values are not human.”
She nodded. “But I didn’t think Grandpa would side with him on this. He’s not like my father.”
“Well, he was tonight. Even though Kyle isn’t here with me now, no one gets to talk shit about him.” The heat crept up Benson’s neck, making his face burn.
“I’m going to ask Grandma to have a talk with him and straighten him out.”
Benson laughed. “Great idea. Before he turns into your dad.”
“The kitten’s things are coming this afternoon. I’ll set his room on the porch for now.”
“Good. I’m going to pay your father a visit.”
Benson didn’t knock—he didn’t have the patience for ceremony.
He rang the bell once and stood tall on the marble steps of Logan’s sprawling estate, jaw clenched, fists already curled at his sides.
The door opened, and Logan stood there in his tailored shirt and smug expression, as if he hadn’t just betrayed his own brother.
“Come in,” Logan said, voice cool.
Benson stepped inside. The opulence of the foyer did nothing to soften the fury burning in his chest. He didn’t sit. He didn’t smile. He didn’t pretend.
“You went through my phone,” Benson said, his voice sharp, cutting. “Then you handed Kyle’s name to Dad like it was some kind of dirty secret.”
Logan shrugged, walking toward the sitting room. “I was protecting you.”
“Protecting me?” Benson followed, his voice rising. “You invaded my privacy, judged someone you’ve never met, and handed him over like evidence in a trial. That’s not protection. That’s control.”
Logan turned, eyes narrowing. “He’s a dancer in a club, Benson. You think that’s love? You think that’s safe?”
“You don’t get to decide who I love,” Benson snapped. “You don’t get to decide anything about my life.”
The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Benson stepped forward, and Logan didn’t back down. Words flew—accusations, insults, years of resentment boiling over. Then fists.
Benson swung first, catching Logan in the jaw.
Logan staggered, then lunged, driving Benson into the side table.
A lamp crashed to the floor, shattering.
They grappled, fists landing hard, and furniture scraping across the polished wood.
A vase toppled. A chair split. Benson’s knuckles bled; Logan’s lip split open.
It was chaos—ugly, raw, years of silence and superiority finally combusting.
“Enough!” Mr. Thomas, the butler, burst in, voice commanding. He stepped between them, arms outstretched, forcing space. “This is not how a family behaves.”
Benson stepped back, chest heaving, eyes blazing. Logan wiped blood from his mouth, glaring.
“You don’t get to touch my life again,” Benson said, voice low and lethal. “Not my phone. Not my choices. Not Kyle.”
He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. The cold air hit his face like a slap, but it felt cleaner than anything inside that house.
He didn’t regret the fight. Not one punch. What he regretted was ever believing Logan might understand.
Benson stepped into his home, the door clicking softly behind him.
The tension from the fight still clung to his shoulders, but the quiet warmth of home loosened it.
The scent of cinnamon and old wood drifted from the kitchen, and the soft hum of the porch light buzzed in the background.
He heard a faint meow and turned toward the inside porch off the kitchen.
Della was there, curled on the wicker loveseat with Rusty, the orange tabby kitten, nestled in her lap as she read.
The moment Benson saw them, something in him softened.
The porch was bathed in amber light, and the kitchen behind them glowed like a memory—safe, familiar, untouched by the chaos he’d just left behind.
He walked over, crouched down, and scooped Rusty into his arms. The kitten purred instantly, nuzzling into his chest. Benson smiled, the kind that came slowly, like a thaw.
“Can you make a vet appointment for him?” he asked Della, stroking Rusty’s ears. “Just a check-up and see what shots he needs. Ask when he will be old enough to be fixed too.”
Della nodded, then glanced at his hands. “Your knuckles,” she whispered. “What happened?”
Benson looked down at the raw, reddened skin. “Had a fight with Logan,” he said, voice calm but edged. “Mr. Thomas broke it up before we wrecked the whole damn house.”
Della didn’t press. She just nodded again, her eyes kind, and went back to her book.
Later, Benson carried Rusty upstairs, the kitten curled like a comma against his shoulder. He set him gently on the bed and sat down, rubbing his temples. The room was quiet, dimly lit, the kind of space that invited reflection whether or not he wanted it.
He checked his phone. One missed call from Kyle. No message.
He dialed back, but it went straight to voicemail.
Probably at a wild gay club. Laughing, dancing, surrounded by people who moved like they belonged in the night. Kyle had a glow—effortless, magnetic. The kind of person who turned heads without trying.
Benson stared at the screen, then set the phone down slowly.
Maybe he was too boring for Kyle. Too structured. Too quiet. He didn’t know how to dance, didn’t know how to flirt in neon lights or make strangers laugh over cocktails. He wrote rent memos and Christmas cards. He argued over zoning laws. He fed stray kittens and drank tea before bed.
Kyle was twenty-two. Benson was…tired.
The thought circled him like a slow drain. Maybe Kyle had called out of politeness. Maybe he’d already moved on. Maybe Benson had imagined the connection, filled in the blanks with hope because it had felt good to be seen.
He lay back on the bed, Rusty curling beside him, and stared at the ceiling. The silence pressed in, not cruel, but heavy.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t rage. He just felt that ache—the one that came when you realized you might not be enough for someone you’d cared about.
Despite that, he hoped Kyle would call again.