Chapter 17
Alaric
The lights are soft and warm in the dining hall, bouncing off crystal glasses and polished silverware, making everything feel gilded and unattainable.
I sit stiffly in my chair, the tailored suit feeling heavier than usual, constricting, like my father’s gaze.
Molly is across the table, talking quietly to her husband, and I catch her eye every so often, a small nod, a flicker of sympathy. She knows. Somehow, she always knows.
Kyle sits next to me, his elbow brushing mine when he reaches for the bread basket.
I stiffen, fighting the urge to pull away, to shove the plate toward him instead of letting him touch it.
My stomach twists in knots every time his fingers brush mine, and I keep my eyes on the centerpiece, pretending the flower arrangement is more interesting than the man beside me.
“Relax, Alaric,” Kyle murmurs, voice smooth, too smooth. “We’re just here to enjoy the evening.”
I want to snap at him. To say, I’m not here to enjoy anything with you, but the words lodge in my throat. I force a smile instead, polite, strained, the kind you use when the world expects you to be agreeable. My father is watching, I know, and any misstep would be a performance he’d dissect later.
The speeches start, the usual fanfare about charity and community.
My father sits at the head of the table, exuding control, cold and calculating, and I can feel his eyes on me, even when he’s speaking to someone across the room.
Kyle leans toward me, whispers something I don’t even hear, and I stiffen again.
I know he thinks I’m going to melt into this scene, let the cameras catch our “happy” smiles, and play the part. I don’t.
Molly’s hand brushes mine under the table. She gives a tiny squeeze, a silent reassurance, and I allow myself a moment to inhale, to ground myself in her presence. She doesn’t judge. She doesn’t ask me to perform. She just sits beside me, steady, and that steadiness is all I have.
The appetizers arrive. I pick at the salad, ignoring the rich aroma of roasted chicken and herbs.
Kyle starts a conversation with someone near him, laughing too loud, leaning back in his chair, and I feel the bile rise in my throat.
The movement of his lips, the casual charm—it’s all wrong, and I can’t stop the disgust curling through me.
I swallow it down with forced calm, focusing instead on Molly’s laughter across the table, soft and real, and the little reassuring squeeze of her hand.
My father clears his throat, a subtle signal for me to sit up straighter, to smile more, to participate in this little pageant. I do what I can, nodding at the right moments, answering the right questions. Kyle chuckles at the appropriate joke, and I want to throw the glass in his face. I don’t.
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, keeping my voice steady. “Yes, of course. That’s an excellent point.”
The waiter passes by, refilling glasses.
Kyle’s hand brushes mine again as he reaches for the water.
I don’t pull away, but I don’t move closer either.
I feel the tension coiling tighter around me, a spring ready to snap, but I clamp it down.
I cannot explode here. Not in front of my father. Not with the cameras. Not tonight.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it at first, unwilling to break the illusion, unwilling to give Kyle the satisfaction of knowing I might be interested in whatever he has to say.
But it vibrates again, insistent. I finally excuse myself, stepping slightly away from the table, pulling the phone from my pocket.
The screen lights up with a sports news notification: Hockey Player Magnus Flint hit by car, hospitalized in critical condition.
Time stops. My fingers tighten around the phone. My vision narrows, the chatter of the hall fading into white noise. Magnus. My chest feels hollow, like the air has been sucked out of the room. I can’t process.
Magnus.
The image of him—wild, reckless, laughing, hurting, alive—flashes in my mind.
I feel Kyle’s eyes on me, curious, but I can’t meet them. I can’t explain this. I can’t let him know how deeply this shakes me.
My stomach twists. The nausea is immediate, sharp. I can taste bile. Magnus. I should be furious at myself for letting him matter so much, for letting anyone matter this deeply, but I can’t. The room tilts slightly, the silverware and glasses blurring into streaks of light as my mind races.
Molly’s voice cuts through my fog. “Alaric?” Her hand touches my arm.
Warm. Real. And I flinch, not from her touch, but because it reminds me that I have a world outside of this chaos, that I should exist outside of it.
But all I can focus on is Magnus even as I allow her to walk me back to the table.
Once seated, I swipe the notification again, hoping for more details.
Anything. Accident. Hospital. Condition.
The words blur and twist. I can feel the blood rushing in my ears, the cold sweat forming along my spine.
I didn’t see this coming. I didn’t expect the world to feel so heavy, so hollow in a single moment.
Kyle leans closer, curious, unaware, and my stomach clenches. “What is it?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. I feel the bile rise again. My fingers tremble around the phone.
The thought of him, of him in danger, in pain, in some sterile hospital room, and I wasn’t there, I wasn’t the one to protect him—it feels like a knife twisting.
Molly’s voice is calm but insistent. “Alaric, what is it?”
I swallow, finally, voice low, rough, barely audible. “Magnus…” My chest tightens, the weight of every misstep, every argument, every moment I didn’t fight harder, every second I let my father, let Kyle, let my life take me away from him. It all collides at once.
Kyle tilts his head, frowning, and I can’t bear to look at him. The fake smiles, the smooth words, the shallow charm—it’s all meaningless now. Magnus is in danger. Not a game, not a charity dinner, not politics or reputation or appearances. Magnus. Alive or not, and I wasn’t there.
The clinking of glasses, the soft hum of conversation, the warmth of the room, it all feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.
I can hear the voices around me, but I’m trapped in the fog of panic and fear.
I didn’t see this coming. None of this made sense.
The thought of him lying in a hospital bed, maybe unconscious, maybe hurt—it makes my stomach twist, my hands shake, my chest ache.
I can’t breathe. My pulse is a drum in my ears. All I see is Magnus, and the realization that I can’t, I won’t, let anything like this happen again.
Kyle leans closer, “Alaric, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
I finally look up, voice breaking, words trembling. “Magnus…he’s—he’s been hit by a car. He’s in the hospital.”
Kyle freezes. The fake charm drops, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable, but I can’t focus on him. I can’t focus on anyone. My world has narrowed to one person. Magnus. Alive, but hurt, and I’m not there. And I don’t know if I can breathe until I am.
I push back from the table, chair scraping against the polished floor, my stomach churning. My father’s speech drones on in the background, the words meaningless, a dull hum against the roar of panic and guilt pounding in my chest.
Magnus. I can’t think of anything else. Not the silverware, not Kyle smiling like he owns the world, not the cameras. I need to see him. I need to know he’s alive.
“I have to go,” I mutter, voice low, but firm enough to make Molly glance at me, her eyes wide with worry.
Kyle’s hand shoots out, grabbing my arm before I can even step away. “Whoa, hold on,” he says, tone deceptively calm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
I yank my arm back, heart hammering. “The hospital. Did you not hear me? Magnus, he’s been hit by a car. I have to see him.”
Kyle smirks, that infuriating, arrogant smirk that usually makes my blood boil. “Yeah, right. Hospital. Come on, Alaric, don’t start acting like this is some…romantic tragedy. This is real life. You think you can just run off and make a scene in front of everyone?”
I step closer, my own pulse rising. “I don’t care about a scene. I care about Magnus. That’s all I care about.”
Kyle’s smirk fades, replaced by something colder, calculating. “Alaric…seriously. Think about what you’re doing. You leave, you throw a fit, you risk looking like a lunatic in front of your father, your family, the media—hell, everyone. Is that worth it?”
Every word feels like a knife twisting in my chest. I want to scream, to shove him against the wall, to make him understand. Magnus is hurt, maybe bleeding, maybe…God, maybe worse. And Kyle sits here, acting like this is a negotiation. Like Magnus isn’t real.
“I don’t care about looking crazy,” I say, voice cracking. “I don’t care about my father, or the press, or you. None of it matters. Magnus matters. Do you understand?”
Kyle laughs, sharp and bitter. “You care about him so much that you’re willing to throw everything else away?”
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. “Yes, I fucking am!”
A few people enjoying dinner turn to look at us. Kyle smiles politely.
Kyle leans closer, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Look, you’re overreacting. Trust me, it’s probably not even that bad. And anyway…you can’t just walk out on everything you’ve got here. You’re not some hero in a movie.”
I shake my head, taking a step back. “I don’t care. I can’t—won’t—stay here while he’s lying in some hospital bed, maybe needing me.”
Kyle looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “He’s your rival, Alaric. Why would you care?”