Chapter Eight
~ Connor ~
I sat across from my mother, every muscle in my body tense as if bracing for impact. The cafe bustled around us, filled with the clinking of cups and the hum of conversation, while I stared at the woman who had given birth to me and then treated me like inventory.
She looked the same as always—perfectly styled blonde hair, expertly applied makeup, designer clothes that cost more than she claimed to have in her bank account when I'd asked for help with tuition.
The familiar scent of her expensive perfume drifted across the table, no longer comforting but nauseating.
My father sat beside her, eyes downcast, examining the wooden tabletop as if it contained the secrets of the universe, anything to avoid looking at me directly.
"You look well, Connor," my mother said, her practiced smile never quite reaching her eyes. "We've been worried about you."
I almost laughed at the absurdity. "Worried? That's what you're going with?"
"Don't be difficult, sweetheart. We haven't heard from you in days." She pushed a coffee cup toward me. "I ordered your favorite. Caramel macchiato, extra shot."
I stared at the cup like it might sprout fangs. "Why am I merchandise to you?"
The question landed between us like a grenade, but my mother didn't even flinch. Instead, her smile tightened, eyes hardening even as her voice remained honey-sweet.
"Don't be dramatic, sweetheart. We were helping you."
This time, I did laugh, the sound harsh and bitter even to my own ears. I pushed the coffee back toward her with one finger, making sure not to touch the rim.
"I'm not drinking anything you give me. Been there, done that."
My father shifted uncomfortably beside her, finally looking up. "Son, you don't understand our situation. The debts, the—"
"Stop," I cut him off, my voice rising despite my attempts to stay calm. "Just stop. You drugged me and tried to sell me to a predator. What situation justifies that?"
Heads turned at nearby tables. A couple paused their conversation to stare.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed a man with long black hair glance up from his phone.
His red and white leather motorcycle jacket creaked as he adjusted his position, eyes lingering on our table before returning to his screen with too much deliberation to be casual.
My mother leaned forward, perfectly manicured nails digging into the tabletop as she hissed, "Lower your voice. You're embarrassing us."
"I'm embarrassing YOU?" The words exploded from me as I pushed back my chair and stood, hands planted on the table as I loomed over her.
My whole body trembled with a rage so pure it felt like electricity in my veins.
"You drugged your own son. You handed me over to a man who—who collects people like they're objects! "
"Alex Harris is worth millions," my mother snapped, abandoning her sugary facade as her eyes darted nervously to the people watching our drama unfold. "Do you have any idea what that would have meant for this family? For your father and me? For Bradley?"
And there it was. The truth, finally spoken aloud.
"But not for me," I said, my voice dropping to a near-whisper as the pieces clicked into place with devastating clarity. "What would it have meant for me, Mother?"
She blinked, genuine confusion crossing her features as if the question had never occurred to her. "You would have been taken care of," she said finally, the words hollow. "Harris promised you'd want for nothing."
"Except my freedom," I finished for her. "Except my dignity. Except my life."
My father's face had gone ashen. "Margaret, what exactly did this arrangement entail?"
So he hadn't known the full extent. That should have made me feel better, but somehow it only made everything worse—that my father was willing to go along with something without understanding what he was agreeing to.
"It doesn't matter now," my mother replied dismissively. "Connor's made his choice, hasn't he? Running off with that crippled old man instead of helping his family."
The casual cruelty in her words hit me like a physical blow. Not just toward me, but toward Julian—the man who had saved me, protected me, valued me in ways my own family never had.
"His name is Julian Montgomery," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded despite the storm raging inside me. "And he's worth more than Harris could ever be."
My mother's eyes widened fractionally. "Montgomery? The Montgomery Industries Montgomery?"
The naked greed that flashed across her face made my stomach turn. Even now, she was calculating, assessing value, trying to determine if I was worth more to her with Julian than I would have been with Harris.
"Yes," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "Congratulations, Mother. Your merchandise married up."
My father at least had the decency to look ashamed, running a trembling hand over his face. "Connor, please sit down. Let's discuss this rationally."
"Rationally?" I repeated, the word tasting like ashes in my mouth. "There's nothing rational about selling your child. There's nothing rational about drugging someone and handing them over to a stranger."
"You always were too sensitive," my mother said, straightening her already perfect posture. "This is why we couldn't tell you beforehand. We knew you'd overreact."
I stared at her, truly seeing her for the first time in my life. There was no love in those eyes, no maternal warmth, no regret—just cold calculation and annoyance that her plans had been disrupted.
"I was never your son," I said finally, the words falling from my lips with the weight of absolute truth. "I was your retirement plan."
My mother didn't deny it. She didn't even try. Instead, she sighed as if I was being particularly tiresome and checked her watch.
"Are you finished with this tantrum? Because if you're not going to be reasonable, your father and I have better things to do."
And in that moment, I knew without a doubt that no explanation she could offer would ever justify what they'd done. No financial difficulty, no family crisis, nothing could make selling your child an acceptable solution.
The Thai man was watching us openly now, his casual pose belied by the alertness in his eyes. Something about his presence made me feel oddly safer, as if I wasn't completely alone in this confrontation.
"We're not done," I said, even as I knew that we were—that we'd been done long before I'd walked into this cafe.
"Bradley should be here soon,” my mother stated. “He has something important to discuss with you."
The mention of my brother sent a chill through me. If my parents had been willing to sell me, what role had Bradley played in all of this? I'd always known he was their golden child, but I'd never imagined he'd be complicit in something so horrific.
As if summoned by my thoughts, a familiar figure appeared at the cafe entrance, scanning the room until his eyes locked on our table.
My brother had arrived, and with him, the next chapter in this nightmare.
I turned to leave, desperate to escape the suffocating presence of the parents who had treated me like a commodity rather than a son, but my exit path was suddenly blocked.
My brother Brad stood there, his tall frame deliberately positioned to prevent my departure. The predatory smile that spread across his face sent a chill down my spine.
In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that he wasn't just aware of what our parents had planned for me—he was an active participant.
"Going somewhere, little brother?" Brad's voice carried that familiar condescending tone he'd used my entire life, only now it was laced with something darker. "Mom and Dad aren't done talking to you."
I straightened my shoulders, trying to project a confidence I didn't entirely feel. "They've said enough. Move."
Brad chuckled, the sound devoid of any actual humor. "Always so dramatic, Connor. Just like when we were kids." His eyes, so similar to our mother's, assessed me like I was merchandise being evaluated for damage. "You're looking well. Better than expected after your... adventure."
"Let me pass, Brad." I attempted to sidestep him, but he moved with me, maintaining the blockade.
In one swift motion, his hand shot out and grabbed my arm, fingers digging painfully into my bicep with enough force that I knew there would be bruises. I winced, trying unsuccessfully to pull away.
"Harris is still very interested," Brad said, his voice dropping to ensure only our family could hear. "Paid extra after your little disappearing act. Seems you've become something of a challenge, and he likes challenges."
The casual way he spoke about selling me made my blood run cold. There wasn't even a pretense of familial concern—just the cold calculation of a business transaction.
"You knew," I said, the words barely audible. "You knew what they were planning."
Brad's grip tightened, his smile widening. "Knew? Connor, it was my idea. Harris is my poker buddy." He leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. "When he mentioned his... collection, I thought of you immediately. Always the spare in the family, weren't you? Might as well be useful for once."
I fought against the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. My own brother had suggested selling me like property. Had sat at poker games and negotiated my worth with a predator.
"Let. Me. Go." Each word was forced through clenched teeth as I tried again to wrench my arm free.
"No can do, little brother. You're coming home with us." Brad twisted my arm behind my back in one practiced motion, the pain shooting up to my shoulder. "We've got a buyer waiting, and this family doesn't welch on deals."
I struggled against his hold, panic rising as I realized his intention was to physically force me out of the cafe. My father finally stood, looking uncomfortable, but making no move to stop Brad. My mother simply gathered her purse as if we were leaving after a pleasant family meal.