Chapter 2

The Imperfect Son

Killian Pov

Everywhere I look, people are watching. The bouncers at the door give me a knowing stare, their silence a more powerful judgment than any words could be. A woman in a neat, professional outfit, waiting for a taxi, glances at me, her eyes lingering for just a second too long before she looks away with a flicker of polite disgust. I'm a mess. My hair is a tangled wreck, my shirt is rumpled, and the scent of another man is on my skin. I feel their eyes on my back as I walk away.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating against my leg. Once, twice, then a third time. I already know who it is. Missed calls, texts piling up. It’s my father. The thought of his name sends a jolt of pure fear through me, followed by a wave of white-hot anger. He’s already calling. He doesn’t wait. He needs to make sure I haven't strayed from the path he so carefully paved for me. Remember to be charming. Don't be late. The Millers are important. His words flash through my mind, a chilling reminder of the performance I have to give tonight.

I spot my car a few yards down the street. I push my way through the last lingering groups of clubgoers. My hand fumbles with the keys, the simple task suddenly feeling impossible under the weight of their gaze. Finally, the satisfying chirp of the unlock echoes. I yank the car door open and collapse into the driver's seat, I feel a comfort against my skin. I slam the door shut, the sound shutting out the judging world outside.

I start the engine, the low hum a soft growl of approval. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white. The city outside my window is waking up, and I am driving away from everything I just did. I am escaping. I press down on the accelerator, the engine roaring as the car speeds down the street, a blur of red lights and street signs. I'm not just driving; I'm running from the memory, from the shame, from the boy I was just a few hours ago.

Angry at myself for letting this happen, for going against every rule I've ever known, and angrier still at the man who has so completely unraveled me.

I tell myself it was a mistake. A one-time thing. It will never happen again. I'll blame it on the alcohol, on the chaos of the club, on anything but the truth. It was a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness that I will bury so deep no one will ever find it. I repeat the words like a mantra, a lie I need to believe to get through this.

But even as I lie to myself, a traitorous part of me wants to find him again. My body, which was so willingly obedient to his touch, burns with a desire I've never known. It's an addiction, a craving for the look in his blue eyes, the possessive strength of his hands, the feel of his body against mine. I try to shake the feeling, to scrub away the memory, but it's everywhere. The taste of him on my tongue, the pressure on my skin. I wonder how I can fill this void he left behind, a sudden emptiness I never knew I had.

I finally make it home and head straight to my room, stripping off the clothes. I jump into the shower, letting the hot water beat down on me, the force of it a desperate attempt to wash away the shame. I scrub and scrub, trying to erase the ghost of his touch from my skin, but it’s no use. The memory is tattooed on my mind, his words echoing in my ears. I get out and stare at myself in the mirror. I look the same. But I'm not. The person in the mirror is a lie.

After an hour of pacing, I make the call I know I have to make. Leo answers on the second ring, his voice still thick and hoarse from the night.

"Dude, are you alive? You disappeared," he says, a laugh in his voice. "We thought Marcus finally got you to get a beer with him."

I manage a small, tired laugh. "Yeah, I'm alive. Just had a massive hangover. You know me, when I go, I go hard."

"Yeah, but you looked like you were seeing a ghost when you bolted for the head," he says, a note of concern creeping into his voice. "Something's off, man. You okay?"

My heart gives a loud thump. He noticed. I quickly push past the question. "I'm fine, seriously. Just a bad mix of drinks. Don't sweat it. Hey, have you talked to my dad? I've got, like, a hundred missed calls."

Leo snorts. "Yeah, he called me. Asked if I knew where you were. I just told him you were with the guys. He sounded... intense. What'd you do, miss a meeting?"

"Something like that," I say, my voice tight. "We have dinner with Serena's family tonight. He wants me there on time, of course."

"Oh, right," Leo says, and I hear the subtle shift in his tone. He knows what that dinner means. "Well, good luck, man. Just... be careful."

I hang up and breathe a sigh of relief. The first lie of the day, successfully told. My phone buzzes again. It’s a text from my father. Don't be late. A simple message, but its weight feels like a physical thing on my shoulders. 

I have hours to kill, but the clock feels like it's already ticking down to my destruction. I feel an urge to get back in the car and drive as far as I can go, but the thought of his disappointment, the cold fury I know he's capable of, freezes me in place. I am a captive, a slave to his expectations.

Hours later, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, I arrive at the Millers' mansion. It is filled with so much wealth, its halls filled with the scent of money and power. Serena is a beauty in a red dress, her hair and makeup flawless. She greets me with a wide smile, her father’s approval written all over his face.

"Killian, darling," Serena says, her hand on my arm. "You're late. Father was just about to send a search party."

I force a smile. "Just a bit of traffic. My apologies, Mr. Miller."

Serena's father, a tall man with a face like a hawk, waves his hand dismissively. "Nonsense. The boy works hard. He deserves a night out." He turns to my father. "He's a credit to you, Robert. A natural leader."

My father's face, for the first time, shows a flicker of genuine pride, a cold thing that still makes my spine stiffen. "He knows what's expected of him," he says, his gaze fixed on me.

The dinner is a test of my acting skills. The conversation is of business deals and empty pleasantries. I nod and smile in all the right places, a well-trained puppet. Serena leans in, her hand on my arm, her voice soft. "You're a bit quiet tonight, sweetie," she whispers. "Everything okay?"

"Just a long day," I manage, the lie coming easily.

"Well, you need to relax. This is a celebration," she says, squeezing my arm. "The contracts are nearly finalized. We're so close to making this official."

A cold dread washes over me. So close. She is talking about the engagement. I smile and nod, my teeth tight. I make a joke about the contract, something about signing my life away, and everyone laughs, unaware of how true my words are.

Later, as we stand on the balcony, overlooking the perfectly manicured gardens, she turns to me. Her eyes are soft as she reaches up and gently kisses me. Her lips are soft, and the kiss is perfect. It should make my heart race. It should make my blood sing.

But there is nothing.

I am a blank space. An empty void. The kiss feels like a business transaction, a performance I am obligated to give. She pulls back, a small smile on her face, and I know I have played my part perfectly.

For the first time, I realize something profound and terrifying. I'm not just pretending to be content; I have never been content at all. This life isn't one I accepted; it's one I was forced into. 

The one night with a stranger, the one touch, the one moment of pure, uninhibited desire, has shattered the illusion of my entire existence. I am not the golden boy who simply follows the flow. I am a prisoner in a cage, and the key, the key to a freedom I desperately want, is a man I don't even know.