Chapter 21
Tobias
Vance hadn't said a word in twenty minutes.
His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. Jaw clenched. Eyes fixed on the road as if he were driving into a combat zone instead of Manhattan.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I said I'm fine."
I observed his profile. The rigid set of his shoulders. The muscle ticking in his jaw. He wore the button-down I'd picked out, the navy blue one that brings out his eyes, but it felt like armor. Like he expected to need protection.
"Breathe," I said.
He didn't respond.
"Vance."
"I'm breathing."
"You're white-knuckling the steering wheel."
"That's how I always drive."
"You're going fifteen under the speed limit."
He glanced at the speedometer, swore under his breath, and the car accelerated slightly.
The Manhattan skyline grew larger through the windshield.
My parents' apartment was on the Upper East Side, close enough to Central Park that my mother could complain about tourists from her living room window.
I'd grown up in that apartment. Learned to walk on those floors.
Spent years playing the perfect Langford son in those rooms.
Now I was bringing home a man I loved, and everything about this felt both terrifying and exactly right.
"They already know about you," I reminded him. "Tristan told them everything."
Silence.
"Well, not everything. But enough."
More silence.
"They want to meet you. That's a good sign."
Vance changed lanes with more aggression than necessary. Still didn't speak.
"Are you going to talk to me, or are we doing the silent treatment all the way to the Upper East Side?"
"I'm not doing the silent treatment." His voice was clipped. "I'm conserving energy."
"For what?"
"For not saying something stupid in front of your parents."
I laughed despite myself. "You're not going to say something stupid."
"You don't know that." He pulled off the highway, following the GPS toward the apartment. "Rich people make me nervous."
"We're not that rich."
The look he gave me could have curdled milk. "You have a doorman. A driver. Your mother's 'casual' jewelry probably costs more than my car."
"The driver is for my parents. I don't use him."
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?"
"The point is I grew up sharing a bathroom with six other kids." He turned back to the road. "Your family has staff."
I reached over and placed my hand on his thigh. Felt the muscle tense beneath my palm.
"They're not going to hate you," I said.
"You don't know that either."
"I know I don't care what they think. I told you that."
"And I told you that you should care. They're your family."
"So are you."
That stopped him. I watched his profile, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
He didn't respond, but his hand dropped from the wheel to cover mine on his thigh.
"If your father kills me," he said finally, "I want to be buried somewhere with a view."
"Noted."
Tristan opened the door.
He was wearing one of his casual-rich outfits: a cashmere sweater and tailored pants, the kind of effortless elegance that probably cost more than Vance's monthly salary. His expression shifted from neutral to something warmer when he saw us.
"You made it." He stepped aside to let us in. "Mom's been checking the window every five minutes."
"Traffic," Vance said.
"Traffic, he says." Tristan caught my eye, amused. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad."
"Feels like it."
"Relax. The interrogation phase is over. Tonight's just dinner." Tristan clapped Vance on the shoulder, a gesture that made Vance stiffen slightly. "Fair warning: Mom's been stress-cooking all afternoon. Dad's on his second scotch."
"That bad?" I asked.
"He's nervous." Tristan lowered his voice. "Don't tell him I told you. He's been practicing conversation topics all week."
"Our father doesn't do small talk."
"Exactly. That's why he's practicing."
The apartment looked the same: high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park, art on the walls that cost more than most people's houses. I'd grown up surrounded by this wealth, these expectations, the suffocating perfection.
It felt different now. Smaller, somehow. Less intimidating.
Or maybe I was just different.
My mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron that probably cost two hundred dollars. Her face lit up when she saw me. Really lit up, not the polished social smile I'd grown up with.
"Tobias." She pulled me into a hug, holding on longer than usual. "I'm so glad you came."
"I said I would."
"I know. I'm still glad." She pulled back and turned to Vance. Her expression softened into something genuine. "And you must be Vance."
He stood stiff, clearly prepared for a handshake. So when my mother wrapped her arms around him instead, he froze completely. His eyes found mine over her shoulder, wide with something like panic.
"Thank you," she said into his chest. "For taking care of my son when we couldn't."
"I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "He takes care of himself. I just provided the apartment."
"You provided more than that." She stepped back, patted his arm. "Tobias told me what you did for him. How you helped him find his way back to himself."
Vance looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. "Anyone would have—"
"No." Her voice was firm. "They wouldn't. Most people would have turned him in, called the family, or tried to get a reward. You gave him space to figure out who he was." She smiled. "That's not nothing."
Vance struggled with the unexpected warmth. He wasn't used to this. To acceptance, gratitude, being welcomed instead of tolerated.
"Mrs. Langford—"
"Eleanor. Please." She glanced at me, eyes bright. "If you're important to Tobias, you're important to us."
My father was waiting in the living room.
He stood by the window, scotch in hand, silhouetted against the city lights. When we entered, he turned. For a moment, I saw the man I had spent years fearing. The disapproval. The expectations. The weight of generations of Langford legacy pressing down on us both.
Then he set down his drink and crossed the room.
"Mr. Kessler." He extended his hand. Not warm, exactly. But not hostile either. "I understand you served."
"Yes, sir. Army. Eight years."
"Which unit?"
"10th Mountain Division. Three tours in Afghanistan."
Something flickered in my father's expression. Respect, perhaps. Or recognition. "Combat?"
"Yes, sir."
A long pause. They were still shaking hands, measuring each other as men do. Testing strength, assessing character, deciding if the other was worthy.
"Good," my father said finally. "Discipline matters."
"It does, sir."
My father released his hand, picked up his scotch, and took a long sip before speaking again.
"My son seems happy."
It wasn't a question, but it demanded an answer.
"I hope so, sir." Vance's voice was steady. "I'm trying to make sure he is."
"See that you do."
And that was it. That was my father's version of acceptance. Gruff, minimal, wrapped in expectation. But it was there. It was real.
Vance caught my eye across the room. I smiled slightly. He didn't smile back, but some of the rigidity left his spine.
First hurdle cleared.
Dinner was awkward.
The food was excellent. My mother's stress-cooking always was. But the conversation moved like molasses. Too polite. Too careful. Everyone trying so hard not to say the wrong thing that no one said much of anything.
"So." My mother passed the bread basket. "Tobias, tell us about this project you're working on."
"The cottage renovation at the Grandview. I'm designing the conversion, turning an old groundskeeper's cottage into a honeymoon suite." I tried to sound casual, but pride leaked through. "Ronan Beck, the hotel manager, approved the preliminary designs last week."
"In one meeting," Vance added quietly. "Usually takes three rounds of revisions."
I glanced at him, surprised. He was staring at his plate, but there was something almost like pride in his voice too.
"That's wonderful." My mother beamed. "Using your degree. Finally."
"Finally," I agreed. "Better late than never."
My father set down his fork. "The Grandview. That's the Sterling property, isn't it? Historic preservation?"
"Yes. The original structure is from the 1920s. Beautiful stonework. The challenge is modernizing the interior systems without compromising the character."
"Sustainable materials?"
"Where possible. Reclaimed wood flooring, high-efficiency windows. The hotel's clientele tends toward environmentally conscious."
My father nodded slowly. I could see him processing, shifting from father to businessman. "Smart angle. Luxury sustainability is a growing market."
"That's what I thought."
"Send me the plans when you're further along. I'd like to see your approach."
I stared at him. In twenty-six years, my father had never once asked to see my work. I'd sat in meetings, reviewed approved blueprints, and attended presentations where no one asked my opinion. Now he was asking.
"I—yes. I will."
Tristan caught my eye across the table, eyebrows raised. I gave him a tiny shrug.
"So, Vance." My mother turned her attention. "You work at the same hotel?"
"Head of security, ma'am."
"That sounds important."
"It's mostly paperwork." He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "And making sure drunk guests don't wander into restricted areas."
"He's being modest," I said. "He runs a team of twelve and handles everything from event security to emergency protocols."
"I'm not being modest. I'm being accurate."
"You're being difficult."
Tristan snorted into his wine. "This is adorable. You bicker like an old married couple."
"We're not—" Vance started.
"He's right," I interrupted. "We do."
Vance shot me a look that promised retribution later. I smiled sweetly.
"Remember when Tobias reorganized the entire library by color?" Tristan asked, clearly enjoying himself. "Mom nearly had a stroke."