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Chapter 25: The Father
Fecha de publicación:
2026-10-10 12:10:47Lucien's father was named Henri Beaumont.
He was 68, French, billionaire times ten, CEO of Beaumont Corp Europe, cold voice that made Lucien's CEO voice sound warm. He wore suits that cost more than Milo's old apartment rent for a year. He did not smile in photos. He was flying in from Paris for two days. Lucien told Milo on Sunday night, while Milo was editing baby photos on couch, feet in Lucien's lap. "My father is coming Tuesday," Lucien said, trying to sound casual, but his hands tightened on Milo's ankles. Milo looked up. "Your dad? Like, your real dad?" "Yes. He wants to meet you. I told him about gallery, about baby photos, about you." Milo sat up fast, camera falling. "He wants to meet ME? Why? Does he know I'm... I'm... I was homeless? That I throw wine? That I have lip piercing and black nails and freckles and I say 'good possessive' too much?" Lucien laughed, nervous laugh. "He knows you are my boyfriend. He knows you are photographer. He knows I love you. That's all that matters." Milo didn't sleep Sunday night. Or Monday night. Tuesday morning, he woke up at 5 AM and tried on every shirt he owned. Blue good luck shirt — too casual. White shirt — too much like Lucien. Black shirt — too "I will stab your son." He ended up wearing his blue good luck shirt anyway, because it was his armor, and black jeans, and he tried to cover lip piercing with lip but couldn't. He put on black nails fresh, because if Henri hated him anyway, he wanted to be hated as himself. And he wore two different socks. Because he was so nervous he didn't notice. Lucien found him in bathroom, staring at mirror, picking freckles like they would come off. "You look perfect," Lucien said, from behind, hands on his waist. "I have two different socks," Milo whispered, horrified, showing one blue sock, one black sock. Lucien looked down and smiled, soft. "My father will love that. It shows you are honest." At 10 AM, Henri arrived. He didn't knock. He had key to penthouse, because he owned building. He walked in, tall, silver hair perfect, suit perfect, cold face. Lucien stood up straight, CEO son straight. "Père," Lucien said in French. "Lucien," Henri said, French accent thick. Then he looked at Milo. Milo was holding camera like shield, freckles red, two different socks visible because he sat on couch with feet tucked. Henri stared at Milo for long time. Milo stared back, terrified. Then Henri said in English, slow: "So you are Milo. The boy who makes my son cancel board meetings for salty soup." Milo's brain stopped. "I... I... soup was salty, sorry, I—" Henri walked closer. Looked at Milo's camera, at his chipped black nails, at his lip piercing, at his blue shirt that was a little too big. "Lucien told me you threw wine on his ex," Henri said. Milo wanted to die. "I... he was... he was in bed with... I was..." "He deserved it," Henri said, and his cold face cracked, just a little, smile. "Julian was always asshole. I told Lucien at 20, but he didn't listen. You listened with wine. Good." Milo blinked. "Good?" "Good," Henri repeated. He sat down, uninvited, on couch, across from Milo. "Lucien told me you were homeless. And now you have gallery. And baby photos. And you make my son smile like idiot. I have not seen my son smile like idiot since he was 8 and fell in Seine." Lucien sat down next to Milo, hand finding Milo's under blanket, squeezing. "Père—" Henri held up hand. "Let me talk to boy. Milo, do you love my son?" Milo nodded, fast, freckles bright. "Yes. Very. I love him very much. He is my safe place and my home and he has moldy suit because he went to my old basement with me." Henri looked at Lucien. "You went to moldy basement? In Kiton suit?" Lucien nodded, embarrassed. "Yes." Henri laughed. Real laugh, loud, French laugh that made penthouse shake. "Finally! My son who never got dirty! You made him get mold! Good boy!" Milo laughed too, nervous laugh turning real. Henri stood and took something from his suit pocket. Small box, velvet, not cheap like Daniel's, real velvet, dark blue. He opened it. Inside, a key. Old brass key, with Beaumont crest. "This is key to our family house in Provence," Henri said, giving it to Milo, not Lucien. "It has been in family 100 years. My wife — Lucien's mother — gave it to me when I was 25 and I was asshole CEO like Lucien. She said 'if you love, you give key.' I give it to you now, because my son loves you and you make him get mold on his suit and cancel board meetings. That is love." Milo held key, hands shaking, two different socks still showing. "I... I can't take family key, I—" "You can," Henri said. "And you will come to Provence in summer. Both of you. You will take photos of lavender and my son will get dirty again, good." He looked at Lucien. "You picked good one. Better than Julian. This one has freckles and throws wine and makes you human. Keep him. If you don't, I will." Lucien stood, shocked. "Père, you never said—" "I say now," Henri said. "I like him. He has two different socks and still looks me in eye. That's brave. Most people look at my shoes." He patted Milo's head, like Milo was kid, but nice. "Make my son make better soup," he said to Milo. "And take many photos of him smiling like idiot. I want to see." Then he left, as fast as he came, key to penthouse left on table — because Milo had key now, not just penthouse key, but family house key. Door closed. Milo stared at key in palm. "He gave me family key," Milo whispered. "I have two different socks and he gave me family key." Lucien knelt in front of him, took his two-socked feet in hands. "You have two different socks and my father loves you," Lucien said, kissing his mismatched socks, making Milo shriek with laugh. "I was so scared!" Milo said, hitting Lucien's shoulder, crying a little, laughing a lot. "He loved you," Lucien said. "Because you are you. Freckles and wine throwing and mismatched socks and all." Milo put Provence key on fridge with magnet, next to baby money and gallery invitation. He wrote under it, big letters, still shaking: HIS DAD GAVE ME FAMILY KEY EVEN THOUGH I WORE TWO DIFFERENT SOCKS. HE SAID I MAKE LUCIEN HUMAN. - M Lucien added: My father never gave Julian anything. He gave you 100-year-old house key. That means you are family now. - L That night, Milo wore matching socks to bed, just to prove he could, and Lucien said "I liked mismatched better, it was brave." Milo kicked him and said "good possessive includes socks now?" Lucien said "good possessive includes everything, even socks, especially socks, my mismatched boy." And they fell asleep with Provence key on fridge, shining brass, promising summer and lavender and more moldy suits.
Último capítulo
He Says I'm His FINAL BONUS CHAPTER 35: The Last Fridge
Ten years later.Milo is 34 now, not 24, not 29, 34, freckles 47 on nose still, but now with more wrinkles when he smiles, because 10 years of smiling more than 24 years of cold makes wrinkles, good wrinkles, warm wrinkles, freckle wrinkles.Black nails still chipped, lip piercing still shining, but now with tiny scratch from Mara's real camera that is now big real camera, because Mara is 7 now, not 2, not 2 and 8 months, 7, real photographer, real camera, real photos, real gallery.Blue good luck shirt still same shirt, 10 years same shirt, now with 15 drool patches, because 10 years of babies, 10 years of Mara, 10 years of Sarah baby sister now 6 with mismatched socks, 10 years of drool, 15 patches, not 9, 15, each patch memory, each patch baby, each patch love, shirt faded, blue still good luck, but now more patches than blue, but still blue, still good luck, forever shirt.Lucien is 38 now, CEO still but half retired, half Provence, half New York, half Taraba, three tables still o
He Says I'm His BONUS CHAPTER 33: The Third Fridge
Five years and two months later, August, not June, lavender not real purple but cut, harvested, but smell still in house, in clothes, in blue shirt with seven drool patches that now had eight drool patches because Mara drooled again yesterday on purpose because she said "eight is better than seven, like your eight white ruins."Milo was 29 and three months, still 47 freckles on nose, still 12 on cheek, still 3 on forehead when nervous, but now also tiny line when he smiles, from smiling so much, because five years of smiling more than 24 years of cold.Lucien was 33 and three months, CEO still but now half Provence office, half New York, half Taraba office, because he opened Taraba office for Milo's mom, with photos on walls, because Milo said "my mom needs office with photos too, not just rice and beans."They had third fridge now.First fridge New York penthouse with 150 photos, because Milo kept adding after 300 total, now 350 total across two fridges, but now third fridge.Second
He Says I'm His Final Epilogue: Five Years Later
Five years later, lavender still real purple every June, but now Milo knows June will be real purple, no surprise, like he knows Lucien will get lavender dirt on white shirt every June, no surprise, like he knows Mrs. Alvarez will bring rice and beans Tupperware on plane every June, no surprise, tradition.Milo is 29 now, freckles 47 on nose still, but now with tiny wrinkle when he smiles, because 29 not 24, but freckles still stars, black nails still chipped, lip piercing still shining, blue good luck shirt still same shirt, now with seven drool patches, because five years of babies drooling, seven patches, not three, seven, each patch memory, each patch baby.Lucien is 33 now, CEO still but half Tokyo calls, half Provence calls, because Beaumont Corp now has Provence office in stone house barn that was darkroom that was gallery, now office too, with photos on walls and rice and beans Tupperware on desk, because Milo put rice and beans on CEO desk.They have child now.Not baby clien
He Says I'm His Bonus Chapter 32: The Magazine
The email came on Monday morning while Milo was in barn darkroom developing second gallery leftovers, red light, yellow gloves too big, Lucien helping and ruining again, white ruin number four now, because they ruined again in Provence barn.Lucien's phone buzzed. He never checked phone in darkroom because Henri said "if you check phone in barn, I will throw it in lavender," but this email was to Milo's email, not Lucien's, forwarded from Lena, subject: VOGUE — PHOTOGRAPHER MILO CHEN.Milo read it with yellow gloves on, hands shaking, chemical smell, red light making email glow red._Dear Milo Chen, We saw your Provence gallery photos on Instagram, from village lady who posted lavender and blue shirt boy. We love your eye. We want you to shoot for Vogue, Paris, fashion week, 10 days, $20,000, plus cover possibility. You would shoot real models, real clothes, real Paris. Please reply._Milo stared at email. Vogue. Paris. Fashion week. $20,000. Cover possibility. Real models, not babies
He Says I'm His Bonus Chapter 31: The Second Gallery
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