Chapter 13
Tobias
The outside world found us on a quiet morning.
Vance's phone buzzed while we were still in bed, tangled together in the gray light. I felt him tense as he read the screen, and something cold settled in my stomach before he even spoke.
"Your family hired private investigators."
I had known this was coming. Known they wouldn't just let me vanish. But hearing it confirmed made the warm cocoon of the past few days feel suddenly fragile. A bubble that could pop at any moment.
"Are they close?"
"No." He set the phone down. "They're looking in all the wrong places. Airports. Hotels in Europe. Your college roommate in Chicago."
Relief washed through me, immediate and overwhelming. They hadn't found me. I was still safe.
But beneath the relief was something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like guilt.
Later, Vance showed me the news coverage.
Elizabeth had given an interview. I watched her face on the screen, composed and elegant, saying all the right things. She spoke about being "heartbroken but hopeful" and prayed I was "safe, wherever I am."
Safe. She was worried about my safety.
"She looks tired," I said quietly.
"She's been through a lot."
"Because of me." I stared at the screen, at the dark circles under her eyes that makeup couldn't quite hide. "I did that to her."
Vance was quiet. He didn't try to tell me it wasn't my fault.
My mother appeared next, facing the cameras beside my father. She held herself together as always: spine straight, chin up, every hair in place. But I knew her tells. The slight tremor in her hands, the way she blinked too quickly when trying not to cry.
"We just want to know he's safe," she said to the cameras. "Tobias, if you're watching, please let us know you're all right."
My father stood beside her, jaw tight, silent. His hand rested on her back, supporting her as he always did when she struggled.
My throat tightened.
"They're worried about me."
"Of course they are," Vance said gently. "You're their son."
"I've been so focused on escaping that I didn't..." I stopped and swallowed hard. "They must be terrified. Not knowing where I am, not knowing if I'm alive or dead."
"You could call them."
"And say what? 'Sorry I ruined everything, but I'm fine. Please stop looking for me so I can keep hiding from my problems'?"
He didn't answer. There was no good answer.
I watched my mother's face on the screen, the careful mask that couldn't quite hide her fear, and felt the weight of what I'd done settle over me like a stone.
My father's statement was harder to watch.
"Our son is going through a difficult time," he said, his voice clipped and controlled. "We're confident he'll come home when he's ready. We ask for privacy as our family works through this."
No accusations. No anger. Just a father trying to protect his family's dignity while his world fell apart.
I'd expected fury. I expected him to denounce me, to call me ungrateful, to make it clear I was no longer welcome. That would have been easier; I could have been angry back and justified my running.
Instead, he just looked tired. Older in a way I'd never noticed before.
"He didn't say I was unwell," I said slowly.
"No."
"The articles are saying that, but he didn't say it."
Vance was quiet, letting me process it.
"I thought they'd be furious. I thought they'd disown me publicly, make it clear I'd shamed the family. But they're just..." I gestured helplessly at the screen. "Worried. Confused. Hurt."
"They love you."
The words hit harder than they should have.
"They love the version of me they created." The response was automatic, defensive. But even as I said it, I wasn't sure it was true. "Don't they?"
"I don't know your family." Vance pulled me against him, his arm solid around my shoulders. "But I know what fear looks like. Your mother is terrified."
"Because of the scandal..."
"Because her son disappeared. Because she doesn't know if you're safe." He paused. "The scandal is secondary. Any parent would be scared."
I thought about that: my mother's trembling hands, my father's careful words, Elizabeth's exhausted eyes.
I'd been so focused on my escape, my freedom, my desperate need to break free. I hadn't stopped to consider the wreckage I'd left behind.
"I'm a terrible person," I said quietly.
"You're someone who made a hard choice," Vance replied, taking my hand. "That's not the same thing."
"I hurt everyone who loved me."
"You saved yourself. Sometimes those things happen together."
I leaned into him, closing my eyes. The guilt didn't disappear, but having him there made it bearable.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay in the dark, listening to Vance breathe beside me, and thought about my family.
My mother, who'd spent my whole life trying to give me everything she thought I needed, meticulously planning my education, career, and future. Had it been control? Or love, expressed the only way she knew how?
My father, who'd never asked what I wanted because he assumed he already knew. Who'd seen my compliance as agreement and my silence as satisfaction. Had he been tyrannical? Or simply blind, unable to see that his son was drowning in a life that didn't fit?
Tristan, who'd refused to come to the wedding and looked at me with disappointment when I told him about the engagement. Not at me, but for me. Had he been judging my choices? Or was he the only one who saw the truth?
And Elizabeth. Sweet, kind Elizabeth, who'd done nothing wrong except agree to marry a man who could never love her the way she deserved.
I'd told myself I was the victim, forced, controlled, manipulated. Maybe that was partly true, but it wasn't the whole truth.
The whole truth was messier, more complicated, full of people who'd hurt each other without meaning to, who'd loved each other in ways that left bruises instead of healing.
I couldn't keep hiding forever. Sooner or later, I'd have to face them, explain myself, accept responsibility for the pain I'd caused, even if my reasons had been valid.
But not yet. I wasn't ready yet.
I curled closer to Vance and waited for morning.
"What do you want to do?" he asked over breakfast.
I'd been thinking about it all night. The guilt. The fear. The impossible tangle of love and resentment that made up my relationship with my family.
"I want to talk to them," I said slowly. "Eventually. Not to fight. Just to explain. To let them know I'm okay. That I didn't run because I hated them."
"Why did you run?"
"Because I was suffocating. Because I couldn't be what they needed me to be. Because every day I spent pretending was killing something inside me." I met his eyes. "But that doesn't mean they're the enemy. They're just people. People who love me in the wrong ways."
"That's a generous interpretation."
"It's the true one." I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug. "My mother wasn't trying to control me; she was trying to give me the life she thought I wanted. My father wasn't trying to trap me; he was trying to secure my future. They were wrong about what I needed, but they weren't malicious."
"And Elizabeth?"
"Elizabeth is collateral damage." The guilt stabbed fresh and sharp. "She deserved a husband who loved her. I gave her a lie. That's on me, not them."
Vance was quiet for a moment. "So what's the plan?"
"I don't know yet." I took a breath. "I need time to figure out who I am, to become someone who can stand in front of them and tell the truth without crumbling. Then I'll reach out, explain, apologize, and let them decide what happens next."
"And if they don't forgive you?"
"Then at least they'll know I'm alive, that I'm sorry, and that I never meant to hurt them."
He reached across the table and covered my hand with his.
"You're braver than you think," he said.
"I'm terrified."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
I smiled despite the fear. "I want you to be part of it. Whatever comes next."
"Even the hard conversations?"
"Especially those."
He squeezed my hand. "Then I'm not going anywhere."