Chapter 4 #2
“In the entire building?” Father raises a brow. My address has been a point of contention ever since I moved out of their pre-approved luxury condo into a building of my choosing with Harley.
“These things happen in any structure,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “Even multi-million-dollar homes can have water damage.”
His mouth tightens. “Not with proper maintenance and oversight.”
A maid—new since my last visit—appears with the first course of soup. The steam rises with a hint of saffron.
“So, Harley,” Mother begins, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes my shoulders automatically tense. “Skyler tells us you’re working on a custody case? For underprivileged children, was it?”
Harley sets down her spoon, her posture straightening. I recognize her professional mode activating. “Yes. The mother has completed rehabilitation and is working to regain custody of her children from their father, who has substance abuse issues at home.”
“How admirable,” Mother says with a tight smile. “It must be emotionally draining, dealing with those sorts of people day after day.”
Those sorts of people. My fingers tighten around my spoon.
“Actually, Mother—” I begin, but my throat constricts. “I’m very proud.”
“I find it incredibly rewarding,” Harley responds smoothly. “These families are working through difficult circumstances with remarkable resilience.”
Mother’s smile remains fixed. “Of course, dear. I’ve always said it takes a special type of person to work in charity sectors for the less deserving.
” She glances at me. “Though I imagine the compensation leaves something to be desired compared to what you could earn in the private sector. Especially with a wedding to fund, and now this housing crisis.”
Say something, I command myself. Defend her. Defend them—the people Harley serves.
My fork rattles against the fine china as I set it down too forcefully. Everyone glances at me, waiting.
“Harley’s work is important,” I say, but the words come out weaker than I intend. “She makes a real difference.”
“No one’s suggesting otherwise,” Father says, his tone indicating he’s about to do exactly that.
“But Robert Thompson Construction has connections with several private foundations that offer substantial positions for someone with Harley’s background.
Better hours, better pay.” He turns to Harley.
“Perhaps this temporary living situation is an opportunity to reconsider your options.”
What would a social worker do at a construction site?
Sure, they could search for financial help for projects, but that’s not the kind of work my family does.
We do multi-million-dollar projects. Our clients don’t require financial assistance.
Besides, even if they did, I can guarantee Harley wouldn’t be in any sort of charitable role.
Instead, they’d force her to work administration or accounts payable.
The implication is clear: become the kind of professional the Thompsons deem appropriate or remain an object of their disdain.
“I appreciate the thought,” Harley says, maintaining her composure, “but I’m committed to my current position.”
“Well, commitment is admirable,” Mother says as the main course arrives, “though flexibility can be equally valuable. Especially now, with your wedding approaching.” She cuts a perfect bite of herb-crusted salmon. “Speaking of which, perhaps this delay with your apartment is fortuitous timing.”
“Fortuitous?” I repeat, finding my voice.
“For reconsidering some aspects of the wedding plans,” she continues smoothly.
“The venue you’ve chosen is certainly charming, but as I mentioned before, the Drake has much more suitable accommodations for a Thompson affair.
They could likely still fit us in if we need to postpone due to your housing situation. ”
This is my chance. I need to shut this down now, make it clear that our wedding plans aren’t changing. I feel Harley’s eyes on me, waiting for me to speak up.
“Mother, we’ve already discussed—” I begin, but my dad interrupts.
“The Henderson project is progressing nicely,” he says, redirecting the conversation toward safer ground. “Though the client continues to push back on the premium materials I’ve suggested.”
“They’ve made it clear that they want to stay within the original budget,” I say, grateful for the subject change, yet hating myself for the relief I feel.
“Budgets are flexible, son. That’s the first rule of business.” He cuts his fish. “Speaking of which, I’ve taken the liberty of reviewing the designs again. I’ve made some adjustments that I think will elevate the entire concept.”
My stomach sinks. “You changed my designs without consulting me?”
“Enhanced,” he corrects. “That’s what collaborative partnership means. I’ve emailed them to you. We can discuss it tomorrow at the office.”
“I have client meetings tomorrow.”
“Reschedule them.” Not a request. “This takes priority.”
I nod, the familiar pattern reasserting itself. For a moment, I’d forgotten my place in the Thompson hierarchy.
Beside me, Harley pushes her food around her plate, her earlier appetite visibly diminished. I want to reach for her hand under the table, offer some silent support, but even that small gesture feels impossible under my parents’ watchful eyes.
Dessert arrives. My appetite has vanished, but I go through the motions, aware that refusing would only prompt more unwanted attention.
“Will you be joining Skyler at the office tomorrow, Harley?” Father asks. “Or do you have appointments for your cases?”
“Court appearance in the afternoon,” she answers, her voice neutral. “But I could use the morning to catch up on paperwork…if there’s space for me at the house.”
“Of course,” Mother says. “Though you might find the library rather distracting. Perhaps the small sitting room off the south wing would be more suitable. It’s rarely used.”
Translation: stay out of the main areas where you might be seen by visitors.
“That sounds perfect,” Harley says, and I marvel at her composure.
When dinner finally concludes, Mother rises with practiced grace. “Skyler, why don’t you show Harley to her room in the guest wing? I’ve had Eliza prepare the blue room.”
“The blue room?” I echo. “But that’s on the opposite side of the house from my old room.”
Mother’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. We maintain proper arrangements for unmarried guests, dear. I’m sure you understand.”
Proper arrangements. As if Harley and I haven’t been living together for years.
I want to protest, to point out the absurdity, but the words stick in my throat like always. Plus, it is her house.
We ascend the grand staircase, Harley beside me, our footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The distance between us feels greater than the physical space, and I struggle to find words to fill it.
“Your room is nice,” I offer lamely when we reach the blue room, a spacious but impersonal guest suite, decorated in various shades of navy. “The bathroom has a great shower.”
Harley sets her overnight bag on the bed. “Is this where Amanda stayed when she visited your parents?”
The question catches me off guard. “No. They put her in the rose room, next to my childhood bedroom.”
A flicker of hurt crosses Harley’s face before she masks it. “I see.”
“I’m sorry about dinner. I should have said something when they—”
“It’s fine.” She doesn’t look at me. “I knew what I was walking into.”
But it’s not fine, and we both know it. I step toward her, wanting to bridge this sudden chasm between us.
“Tomorrow will be better,” I promise, the same empty words I’ve been repeating to myself all day. “I’ll talk to them.”
She finally meets my eyes. “Will you?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with all my past failures.
“Yes,” I say firmly, willing it to be true. “Get some rest.”
I move to kiss her, but she turns slightly so my lips land on her cheek instead of her mouth.
“Goodnight.”
I feel the distance between us stretch with every step as I walk the long hallway back to my childhood bedroom, my parents’ house expanding like a living thing to separate us further.
The luminous hands of my childhood alarm clock mock me from the nightstand: 3:17 a.m. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for four hours, watching shadows shift across the navy-blue wallpaper my mother selected when I was twelve because “growing boys need proper surroundings.” Nothing in this room was ever my choice—not the mahogany furniture, not the precisely arranged trophies, not even the books on the shelves that were selected more for their appearance than their content.
I turn onto my side, punching the too-soft pillow into submission.
Sleep refuses to come. All I can see when I close my eyes is Harley’s face at dinner, that moment when she looked at me for support and found nothing but silence.
I close my eyes against the sight, but the dinner scene replays in excruciating detail behind my eyelids.
My own throat, closing like a fist around the words I should have said. My silence an abandonment.
Suddenly, the mattress feels too soft, too familiar—the same bed where I lay awake as a teenager, plotting architectural designs that might finally impress my father. I sit up abruptly, throwing off the Egyptian cotton sheets.
My bare feet hit the plush carpet as I stand, unable to remain still with the weight of my failure pressing down on me.
I pace the length of the room—seven steps from door to window, turn, seven steps back.
The same path I’ve walked a thousand times before when wrestling with disappointing test scores or preparing for competitions.
The silver-framed family photos on my dresser catch the moonlight streaming through the window.
My graduation from Princeton—Mother’s perfectly coiffed hair, Father’s hand on my shoulder, my smile strained beneath the weight of their expectations.
Another from a charity gala last year, with Mother, Father, and me in matching black-tie attire, and the empty space beside me where a partner should stand.
The space where Amanda once stood, before I finally found the courage to break the engagement to eventually meet Harley.
I pick up the graduation photo, studying my younger self. When did I become this person? This hollow echo of a man who can’t defend the woman he loves against the subtle cruelty of his parents? When did their approval become more important than my integrity?
I’ve always known the answer. Since I was six years old and learned that emotional withdrawal was my parents’ preferred method of discipline.
Since I was ten and discovered that achievement was the only currency they recognized.
Since I was fifteen and realized that the rare moments of warmth and pride in their eyes were worth any sacrifice, any compromise of my own desires.
Except, it’s not just my desires anymore. Because now I’m compromising Harley’s dignity, her worth, her place in my life.
I set down the photo with more force than intended, the frame making a sharp sound against the wooden surface.
I think of Harley, alone in the blue room on the opposite side of the mansion.
Is she sleeping? Or is she lying awake, wondering if marrying into the Thompson family is worth the price she’ll pay?
The thought sends a cold ripple through me.
I can’t lose her. Not Harley, who laughs at my architectural jokes that no one else understands.
Harley, who brings me coffee during late-night design sessions without being asked.
Harley, who sees the man I want to be, not just the obedient son I’ve been trained to be.
I want our apartment with its mismatched furniture and the kitchen table I restored. I want Sunday mornings with no agenda beyond making Harley laugh. I want a future where my parents’ approval is a welcome addition, not a necessary foundation.
I’ll speak up at breakfast, set boundaries, make it clear that Harley is not subject to their judgment or manipulation.
But even as I think it, doubt gnaws at my resolve. Thirty years of conditioning won’t disappear overnight. The patterns are deep, the grooves well worn.
But I’ve never had so much at stake before. Never had Harley’s trust to lose.
I lie back down, staring at the ceiling, rehearsing variations of what I’ll say in the morning. How I’ll keep my voice steady when Mother’s eyes narrow. How I’ll maintain eye contact when Father’s disapproval radiates across the table.
“Harley is going to be my wife. You will respect her career, her choices, and her place in my life,” I whisper into the darkness, a promise to myself more than a practice of my speech.
The clock reads 3:42 a.m. now. In a few hours, the household will stir to life. Breakfast in the Thompson house has always been a formal affair.
Tomorrow will be different. It has to be.
As sleep finally begins to pull at the edges of my consciousness, I cling to that promise, even as a lifetime of experience whispers that some patterns are too deeply ingrained to break.