31. Hi, Son
HI, SON
NATE
He touched her.
No—he fucking grabbed her.
And the second his hand closed around her arm, everything went white-hot.
Pure, blinding rage.
I've never wanted to destroy someone the way I wanted to destroy Wesley Grant in that moment.
Not hurt. Not fight. Destroy.
The rage is still there—simmering under my skin, coiling in my chest, demanding release—as I head into the studio.
My jaw aches from clenching it and my hands won't stop shaking. I have to consciously force myself to loosen my grip on the door handle.
To breathe. To let the adrenaline drain before I do something I can't take back.
When his hand wrapped around her arm like he had any right to touch her, like he owned her—something in me snapped.
Not broke. Snapped.
Like a wire pulled too tight, vibrating with tension, ready to cut through anything in its path. I was going to break his fucking nose.
Maybe his jaw too.
Definitely his wrist for daring to put his hands on her.
I had the distance calculated. The angle. The follow-through. Knew exactly how many steps it would take to close the gap. Knew exactly where to hit to make sure he went down hard and stayed down and didn't get back up.
Every instinct I've spent years learning to control was screaming at me to make him hurt the way seeing him touch her hurt. To make sure he understood—on a visceral, bone-deep level—what happens to men who put their hands on women. Specifically her.
And I would have.
I was one heartbeat away from it. One second of letting the rage take over.
But then she said my name.
Just that. Just "Nate."
Soft and steady and pulling me back from the edge just like she has so many times before. And suddenly I could see it—what I was about to do. The violence I was about to unleash. The line I was about to cross.
The man I was about to become if I let the rage win.
Scott's son. Scott's anger. Scott's fists.
So I chose words instead. Chose restraint. Chose to be the person she needed me to be instead of the monster my father raised.
But fuck, it was close.
Too close.
My hands are still shaking when I get to my office.
Still trembling with unused adrenaline, with rage that has nowhere to go. I sit for a minute, just breathing, letting the memory of her standing behind me ground me.
She's safe and he's gone.
I repeat it like a mantra until my heart rate slows.
Until the shaking stops.
Until I can think about something other than how badly I wanted to hurt him.
By the time I make it to the studio, Julian's already there, looking like absolute hell. Bloodshot eyes, hair sticking up in every direction, same clothes from yesterday. Coffee cup gripped like a lifeline.
"Rough night?" I ask, voice rougher than I intend.
Still affected by the confrontation.
He just grunts.
I pour myself coffee I don't need, just to have something to do with my hands that isn't punching a wall.
"Uhh, Nate," Julian says after a moment. "There's a guy out front asking for you."
My stomach tightens.
"Who?"
Please not Wes. I don't trust myself to stay calm a second time.
Julian shrugs. "Didn't say. Just asked if you were here. Seemed nervous though.”
A client? Someone from the film company?
“I’ll take care of it,” I tell Julian. “You go get some sleep. You look like death.”
"Feel like it too," he mutters, heading toward the back rooms.
I step outside, blinking against the morning sun only to be met with a figure standing near the entrance.
For a brief moment, my body tenses—similar height, similar build to Wes—and the rage flares back.
But it's not him.
This man is older. Taller by a few inches.
Broad shoulders that speak of physical work, not gym memberships. Dark hair streaked with gray, pulled back at the nape. Jeans and a worn leather jacket. His eyes—deep brown, almost black—study the building like it means something to him.
"Can I help you?"
My voice comes out guarded, edged with leftover adrenaline.
He turns, and something in his expression shifts.
Recognition. Relief. Fear.
"I..." He stops, lets out a breath. "I had this whole speech ready. But now that I'm here..."
He trails off, runs a hand through his hair—a gesture that's eerily familiar because I do the same thing.
I cross my arms and wait. He squares his shoulders like he's preparing for impact.
"There's no easy way to say this. My name is Dominic. Dominic Torres."
He swallows hard and my heart rate goes through the roof because I recognise the name.
“I’m…uhh—"
It feels like the wind just got knocked out of me.
“I know who you are.” I stare at him, looking for denial, proof, anything. But the longer I look, the more I see it.
The same dark eyes. The same jaw. The way he stands with his weight forward, always ready to move.
"I've tried calling," he adds. "Multiple times. Then I saw the Rolling Stone interview—they mentioned the studio. So, I had to try and thought this might be a conversation that’s better to be had in person than over the phone.”
The unknown numbers lighting up my phone for weeks and the voicemails I never listened to. They were his.
"Why show up now?"
He looks at the ground. "Because I don't want to miss the chance again."
"You had twenty-eight years of chances."
There’s no heat in it, just fact.
"I know." He meets my eyes, pain settled deep. "I made a choice—the wrong choice, probably—to stay away."
"Mom said you promised to stay away. That you agreed to it."
"I did. To keep you safe. From Scott."
The name sits between us like a landmine.
"Scott's dead," I say flatly. "Has been for a while now."
"I know. I heard. That's why I'm here. Because the reason I stayed away—the threat he posed—is gone. And I thought maybe it was time to stop being a coward."
I study him.
He doesn't look dangerous. Doesn't look desperate. He just looks tired. And sad. And hopeful in a way that's almost painful.
"Your mother told me when she found out she was pregnant. She was terrified about what Scott would do. He was already showing signs of violence. She thought distance was safer. And I agreed."
He runs a hand through his hair—my gesture.
"I wanted to come back, to take you both away. But Scott and his family had too much money, too much power."
"And you never tried to reach out after?"
"I did. Once. When you were eight. Your mother said Scott had gotten worse. That any contact from me would put you and her in danger."
There’s shame visible in his shoulders.
"So I stopped. Figured the best thing I could do was disappear completely."
"And you did."
"Not by choice." He pauses. "I was sent to prison. Six years. False drug charge. Heroin possession with intent to distribute." His jaw tightens. "If I was to guess how the drugs were planted, I wouldn't need many guesses."
Scott.
Of course it was Scott.
The anger drains out of me, replaced by something colder.
Heavier.
Grief so profound my chest aches.
Scott didn't just abuse me. He didn't just terrorize my mother. He orchestrated the removal of the one person who could have protected us. Who could have taken us away. Who could have given me a different childhood.
Dominic was in prison for six years on a false charge while I was growing up thinking no one cared enough to stay.
And Scott made sure of it.
I look at Dominic—really look at him—and see a man who's carried this for twenty-eight years. Who lost his son, lost the woman he loved, lost six years of his life.
And still came here today, hoping it wasn't too late.
"I'm sorry," I say, voice rough. "For what he did to you."
His eyes widen. "You have nothing to apologize for. You were a kid."
"Neither did you."
The words hang between us.
"Do you want a tour?" I ask suddenly.
His eyebrows lift. "What?"
"Of the studio. Do you want to see it?"
"You're serious?"
"Yes."
Maybe this is how we start. Not by trying to make up for twenty-nine years, but by taking one small step.
"I'd like that. Yes. I'd really like that."
We walk the halls in silence at first. I show him the main recording room, the booth, the equipment. He takes it all in quietly. We end up in the lounge where my guitars are mounted on the wall.
He stops in front of a rare Gibson Les Paul.
"May I?"
"Yeah. Go ahead."
He lifts it off with reverence. His hands find the strings like they're coming home, settling into a chair.
Then he plays.
Clean. Steady. Familiar in a way that makes my chest tight.
Not a song I recognize, just a progression that flows effortlessly. But the style—how his fingers move, the rhythm—it's like looking in a mirror.
"You play like me," I say when he finishes.
He looks up, a faint smile crossing his face. "Or maybe you play like me."
I don't argue.
How I approach music, how my hands move—I learned it from somewhere.
From him.
"My mom said you played. That you taught guitar before everything."
"Still do. Different city, different students. But yeah. It's the only thing I've ever been good at."
Silence settles between us.
“You know, I thought this would be harder," he admits. "Coming here. Facing you. But you're... you're listening. I don't deserve that."
"You want the truth? I don't have it in me to waste time on hate anymore. I spent too many years carrying it around. I'm not doing that again."
Something like hope flickers in his eyes.
"Does that mean...?"
"I don't know what it means. You're a stranger who happens to share my DNA. You made choices—whether they were right or wrong, I don't know. I wasn't there."
I lean against the wall.
"But you're here now. And Scott's gone. So maybe we figure out what comes next."
"I'd like that. Even if all it is occasional conversations. That's more than I deserve."
"What you deserve isn't the point. The point is figuring out where to go from here."
He nods. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"The Rolling Stone interview mentioned rough years. Are you good now?"
The genuine concern catches me off guard.
"Yeah. I'm good now. Wasn't always. But I got help. Did the work. Built this place as proof I could create something instead of destroying it."
"I'm proud of you," he says quietly. "I know I have no right to be, but I am."
I don't know what to say, so I just nod.
Dom looks at the time and I realise that two hours has passed since he got here.
“I should go. I've taken up enough of your time. But thank you. For listening."
"Wait." I pull out my phone. "Give me your number."
He rattles it off. I save it under Dom Torres.
"I'm not making promises about what this becomes or how often we talk. I've got a lot going on, and I need to figure my own shit out before I can figure out this."
"I understand. Whatever you're willing to give, whenever you're ready. That's enough."
We walk to the entrance together. He pauses, looking back at the building.
"Meridian. That's a good name."
"Thanks."
"Maybe sometime you'll tell me why you chose it."
“Yeah.”
"Your mom," he smiles sadly. "Is she doing okay?"
I walk over and hold out my hand.
"Stick around long enough and you'll see for yourself."
He shakes it, his grip firm. A promise he intends to keep.
After he leaves, I stand there for a long time, just processing.
My phone goes off in my pocket.
Nora
Thank you again.
Nate
Someday, you're going to have to learn to stop thanking me
Nora
Not sure that's going to happen.
Nate
I got you Len, always.
Three dots appear then disappear. So I slip the phone back into my pocket and head inside.
Julian's emerges from his nap looking marginally more human.
"Who was the dude?" he asks.
"My dad."
Julian's mouth falls open. "Your dad. As in your biological father just... showed up at the studio." He stares at me. "Nate, I took a nap. I was asleep for two hours. How does your life move this fast?"
I laugh because he's not wrong.
But for the first time in a long time, it feels like I can handle it all.