Chapter 3
Dash
“ How are you managing the pain? Are the medications providing relief?” Dr. Kasper fiddles with his notes.
Is he the patient or me because the dude looks like he needs to lie down? It is, after all, four in the morning, but when Dad snaps his fingers, the world jumps.
Hell, some countries quiver.
“ He ’ s fine.” Dad checks his watch.
Sure I am; I ’ m just beaten to within an inch of my life and can ’ t walk.
Dr. Kasper adjusts his glasses, pausing to choose his words carefully. Don ’ t bother trying to make my dad care, Doc. “ Let me explain the nature of Dash ’ s injury so you understand the severity and our plan for recovery,” he begins.
“ Dash sustained what we call a ‘ bi-component fracture ’ to the tibia, or shinbone, which is a common but serious type of leg injury. The bone is broken in two distinct places—near the knee joint and closer to the ankle. This type of fracture disrupts both the alignment and integrity of the bone.”He walks to the wall where a light box hangs.
I glance at Dad, who grinds his jaw so harshly that I think we ’ re going to have to call up his dentist and get him dentures.
Dr. Kasper clicks on the light to illuminate the X-rays. “ As you can see here,” he points, “ the breaks are quite apparent. The upper fracture is transverse, meaning the break goes straight across the bone. The lower break is slightly oblique, creating an angled break. This complexity makes it challenging to ensure everything heals perfectly aligned.”
I felt it when it broke in both places. I smiled. Kings don ’ t scream.
I learn that lesson young.
Dr. Kasper turns back to Dad, his expression sober. “ Given the location and nature of these fractures, surgical intervention was necessary. We inserted metal rods and screws to stabilize the bone, ensuring it heals in the correct anatomical position. Without this intervention, Dash risked permanent deformity and loss of function in the leg.”
Maybe if I ’ m deformed, Dad won ’ t call me his son anymore. Is that the ticket to freedom?
“ Recovery from such an injury is gradual and will require patience. The bones need time to fuse back together, a process that is initially quite delicate. Dash needs to avoid putting any weight on the leg for at least six to eight weeks to prevent disrupting the repair.”
Did he say weeks? Yeah, hell no.
The doctor sighs softly, empathizing his distress. “ I know this is a lot to take in, but we are committed to Dash ’ s recovery. With diligent care and adherence to the rehabilitation plan, we expect a return to full functionality.”
“ My son will be transferred to a facility that will oversee his rehab. I appreciate your care,” Dad replies sharply. Slapping the poor doctor in the face would have been less awkward.
The doctor glances at me and then back at my dad. I know what he ’ s wondering. Did my dad do this?
“ Thanks, Doc,” I grin sarcastically. “ Daddy here is going to make me all better, aren ’ t you, Pops?”
The tension in the room goes from uncomfortable to sweltering. Dr. Kasper inches back like the remnants of a melted popsicle, trying to remain solid on the wooden stick.
“ You may leave,” Dad orders Dr. Kasper without giving him another glance.He leaves, taking away all my fun. Now it ’ s just Daddy Dearest and me.
Dad runs a hand through his hair. I watch it shine and look more yellow under the fluorescent lights of the hospital room.The King men have genetically built-in halos, otherwise known as our golden blonde hair. However, Titan is the only one of my cousins who got the famous honey golden tresses. I guess it is appropriate since he is the eldest.Damian is the black sheep. He got his mom ’ s dark hair and slightly tanner skin.My hair? Well, it’s my mom ’ s shade of icy white blonde. It always made Mom look so ethereal, like an ice queen. I guess now it makes her look more angelic in heaven.
Dad ’ s halo? Well, it is starting to tarnish. It is no longer solid gold but is now tinged with silver. I thought it would make me happy to see him age and die, but seeing silver in his hair now just reminds me of Mom and her icy blonde shade.
“ I don ’ t have time for these childish games,” Dad finally says. He hasn't looked directly at me. That, well, it hurts more than the broken bones.
Why do I still want his attention?
Because I am a fool.
“ You didn ’ t have to come,” I mutter as I glance down at the contraption they have my leg bound in.
This…isn ’ t good. I am weak. Exposed. I realize it now; the haze has lifted, and I understand why Titan and Damian are so concerned.
“ You need to disguise your wants better,” Dad tucks his hands into his custom-fitted trouser pockets. He has a famous tailor from Savile Row fly to him to make his suits. He made my suit for Mom ’ s funeral.
“ You want me here. You just admitted it through your denial. Calling me would have been simpler." He glances at my cast for a moment as if the sight is repulsive. “ Now look what you ’ ve done.”
He tugs at his collar, "Your enemies will see your desires through your actions, and they will use it to destroy you."
“ And are you?”
Dad ’ s golden brow inches up. “ Am I what?”
I swallow and look at his nose, avoiding his eyes. “ My enemy?”
Dad takes one step that sends my heart into palpitations, then another. The sound of his custom shoes striking the floor echoes like plate tectonics shifting beneath a mountain—monumental.
That ’ s my father—a King. I dwell in his shadow, but one day, I will be shaped into the man I despise—the father I once cherished.
“ Every man is an enemy,” Dad coldly replies.
What about a father?
He shakes his head. “ Money,” then shrugs his wide shoulders, “ power,” he continues, “ They don ’ t make the world go round. They don ’ t drive men to continue trying to survive this messed-up life.”
He pauses, his voice dropping to a grave tone. “ It ’ s lust, son. Men lust, and that motivates everything. You could be a fool and trust a man with your life, even a man you call father. Something will cross his path that will tempt him, and that lust will stab you in the back.”
He rolls his shoulders back, eyes narrowing. “ Don ’ t trust another, not even yourself. Your heart and mind are constantly at war. Don ’ t trust your cousins with your life; one day, they could lust for your empire. Build walls, reinforce them, and keep those you love on the other side. That ’ s the only way to survive.”
There ’ s my answer. In a way, I ’ m grateful he ’ s finally revealed why he won ’ t look me in the eye, why he ceased being a father the moment Mom was diagnosed with cancer. He built a wall and kept me on the outside, isolating himself in his guarded solitude.
My throat tightens as if I ’ m about to slip into anaphylactic shock, but I muster the courage to confront him. Every aspect of my life seems crafted into a test or a lesson; this moment is no exception.
“ Is that what you did with Mom? Kept her on the other side of the wall?”
Slowly, like a butcher admiring a newly sharpened blade, he glides his tongue over his teeth. “ No,” he admits.
His response shocks me.
“ I let her inside—a place no one had been before, nor will anyone be again.” He turns to leave, then pauses, bracing the door frame with his right hand. “ You think I ’ m living?” he asks, his voice low. “ You think I ’ ve moved on with my business and life without her?”
His pain is palpable. I feel a twisted satisfaction seeing him suffer, like a conqueror watching a once-untouchable empire burn.
Tragic yet powerful. They go hand in hand. There ’ s always hope in the ashes of destruction. Rebirth.
I wonder what my father and I will build now that our relationship is irrevocably shattered.
“ I ’ m not. I ’ m hollow.” He clears his throat, his voice hardening. “ Don ’ t mention your mother again.”
“ Why?” I shout, the frustration making me jerk, wishing I could leap from the bed.
“ Why what?” Dad growls, his hand slipping from the frame and back into his pocket.
“ Why continue living, then?” Why aren ’ t you breaking down like I am?
“ Your answer lies in a mirror, son,” he replies with a heavy sigh, and then he leaves.
I watch his shadow slowly retreat from my room, like the sands in an hourglass marking the end of our time.
I snort derisively. “ A mirror. There ’ s no fucking way you ’ re living because of me, Dad.”
That ’ s what he meant. Me, the son, he can ’ t even look in the eye.
What a fucking joke.