Chapter 6 : “Born with a silver spoon”

*Aaron’s POV*

The muted glow of dawn barely filtered through the heavy silk drapes, casting long shadows across my dorm room's expanse of polished oak and leather-bound tomes. I sat there, perched on the edge of a bed that cost more than most people's annual rent, feeling the weight of golden shackles tighten around my wrists.

Burdened by legacy, I was expected to play the dutiful heir, but every fiber of my being screamed for rebellion against this gilded cage.

The ring of my phone sliced through the morning stillness like the peal of some ominous bell tolling my fate. I glanced at the caller ID—Father—and felt my stomach churn with a familiar cocktail of anticipation and dread.

"Good evening, Aaron," came his voice, crisp and authoritative, as if he were opening a board meeting rather than speaking to his son.

"Evening, Dad," I replied, my tone flat, betraying none of the turmoil within. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Your grades, Aaron." There was a pause, and I could almost hear the self-satisfaction in his silence. "They've been exemplary. The dean personally commended you. And I must say, the donation we made seems to have been well worth it."

I gripped the phone tighter, the cold plastic pressing into my palm. A sense of suffocation took hold, as if the walls of my room were inching closer, threatening to crush me beneath layers of expectation and privilege.

"Is that what this is about?" I said, struggling to keep my voice level. "Buying my way to success? I don't want your money paving my path, Dad. I want to earn my achievements, not have them handed to me wrapped in a bow."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Aaron, you're being naive. This is how the world works—the world we dominate. You think anyone at the top got there alone? Without influence or resources?"

"Maybe I don't want to be at the top. Not if it means being chained to someone else's idea of who I should be," I shot back, my words loaded with years of pent-up frustration.

"Son, you're not understanding the scope of our family's power. It's not just about wealth; it's about maintaining control. Your destiny has been carved out from the moment you were born."

"And what if I want to carve out my own destiny, Dad?" My voice rose, a tremor of defiance lacing each syllable. "What if I want to find out who I am without the name, the money, the strings attached?"

"Enough, Aaron." His tone turned icy, brooking no argument. "You will fulfill the role you were born into. One day, you'll understand that all of this is for your own good."

I ended the call, my heart drumming a wild, erratic beat. I looked out the window, the world beyond bathed in the soft blush of sunrise, and wondered if I'd ever truly see it, unfiltered by the tint of privilege and power.

I stepped out of my dorm, the chill of early evening nipping at my skin. The air was tinged with the scent of impending rain, a sense of foreboding clinging to the droplets that gathered in the atmosphere. I couldn't shake off the weight of my father's words, nor could I ignore the disquiet brewing within me.

I thought I saw Sebastian marching with determination towards the classrooms, but I knew his courses were all over for the day, and something told me he was up to something. So I headed towards his direction, and tried to decipher where he was headed. Most people actually left the buildings already, so what was he doing there?

Then I saw him.

There, across the quadrangle, in a very unusually quiet hall, was Sebastian—his frame rigid, presence domineering. Even from this distance, I could feel the palpable tension emanating from him like an aura of malice. Roanne stood before him, her posture defiant yet vulnerable—a lone reed swaying in the tempest of his wrath.

"Roanne, you’re trembling." I heard Sebastian's voice slice through the quiet, the sharpness of his tone carrying over.

My pulse quickened, anger coursing through my veins as I watched him step closer, his hand reaching out to grasp her arm—a gesture that seemed possessive, all-consuming. "Is this not what you wanted? To feel something again?" he continued, his voice now a silken threat.

"Never from you," Roanne's reply was firm, but there was an undertone of fear that made my fists clench.

With each syllable he uttered, my rage grew, kindled by the sight of his entitlement—the same entitlement I despised in myself and my family. How many times had I seen this scene unfold, the strong preying on those they deemed weaker? And how many times had I stood by, silent and complicit?

"Sebastian, stop it. I'm not your property," Roanne snapped, trying to pull her arm free.

"Property?" Sebastian laughed, the sound dark and hollow. "No, you're more... You're mine."

"Mine" echoed in my mind, a word that dripped with possession, with control. I knew that word, knew its chains, its prison. And I suddenly understood that Roanne and I were not so different—we both yearned for freedom from the shackles imposed upon us.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself to intervene, to shatter the silence that had always been my cage. But even as I moved forward, the specter of consequence held me back. The intricate web of familial connections, the unspoken rules of power and privilege, loomed over me like a gargoyle perched on the edge of my consciousness.

"Sebastian," I called out, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging within me. "Stop."

He turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw me approach a few steps. A smirk played on his lips, the arrogance etched into his features. "Look at you, so defiant," he said to her again, releasing Roanne with a shove. "It suits you."

“Enough,” I countered, my gaze never wavering from his.

For a moment, there was silence, the tension hanging between us like a guillotine blade poised to fall. I was caught in a maelstrom, torn between the fury that demanded justice and the caution bred into my very bones.

"Consider this a warning," Sebastian spat out eventually. "I'm not someone to be ignored, Roanne."

My pulse raced, the drumbeat of fury crescendoing within my chest. This was wrong—every instinct screamed it at me, tearing through the veneer of civility that my upbringing had polished onto my skin. I watched as Roanne stumbled away and then I faced Sebastian will all the intention to make him understand my position.

"Sebastian." My voice cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and unyielding. "Back off from her already."

He turned to me, his sneer a mask slipping to reveal the predator beneath. "She's mine to deal with," he growled, possessive and dark.

"Like hell she is," I retorted, my words a whip-crack in the charged air. "You may have paid your way through this institution, but that money won’t do well against a big scandal."

The threat was clear, its edge honed by the adrenaline pumping through my veins. But even as I spoke, a coil of unease tightened in my gut. The Webers were more than just acquaintances; our families’ ties ran deep, bound by old money and older secrets. To lash out at Sebastian was to risk unraveling threads I wasn't sure I could afford to lose.

I grappled with the anger festering inside me, a molten core of rage that threatened to erupt. It clashed with the cold calculus of consequence, a battle waged in the space of heartbeats. His eyes met mine, a challenge flaring in their depths, and something primal within me roared to life, craving to wipe that smug assurance from his face.

"Is this really the fight you want now, Aaron?" Sebastian hissed, his voice a venomous caress. "Think about your parents. Think about our families."

His words struck home, barbed and deliberate. My mind flashed to gilt-edged portraits and manicured lawns, to whispered deals made over glasses of aged scotch. A world where power was currency, and loyalty was bought and sold.

"Stay away from Roanne, she is your kryptonite, you don’t know how to react around her," I said, the firmness in my voice showing the rock-solid intent behind it. "Last warning, as a friend."

He held my gaze for a moment longer before stepping back, his retreat a slow, deliberate show of disdain. I watched him go, each step a reminder of the fine line I walked—a tightrope strung between desire and duty, between what was right and what was expected of me.

As the distance grew between us, a whisper of wind stirred the leaves, carrying with it the weight of decisions yet to be made. Would I become the puppet my heritage demanded, or would I cut the strings and forge my own path?

The world was a chessboard, and I—a reluctant king shackled by the moves of those who came before me. I could feel the weight of my bloodline anchoring me to a life scripted by generations of affluence.

‘Damn it,’ I muttered under my breath, my fists clenching at my sides. The frustration simmered within me, bubbling up from a well of obligations and expectations I never asked for. My family's name, once a badge of honor, felt more like a shackle with each passing moment—a brand searing into my flesh a reminder that my path had been paved long before I took my first steps.

Isn't it just perfect? Born with a silver spoon only to find it's been lodged in your throat, controlling every swallow, every breath.

My fists clenching at my sides as I watched Sebastian's silhouette through the window, his posture one of careless dominance. It was then the weight of reality settled upon me—a cold, leaden shroud.

‘Family first, Aaron.’ My father's voice echoed in my mind, an edict from on high. Our families were intertwined, our fortunes knotted together in a tapestry that would unravel with but a single, reckless tug. And for all my rage, for every ounce of protectiveness that surged within me, I knew I could not risk it. Not without inciting a war whose casualties would include more than just my own conscience.

‘Control yourself,’ I muttered, feeling the heat of anger recede beneath the chill of calculation. ‘There are other ways.’

It was in the quiet that followed that I felt it—the subtle shift within. A sense of purpose blooming in the dark soil of restraint. A recognition that true power lay not in open confrontation but in the artistry of maneuvering within the shadows.

‘Sebastian, you've played your hand well,’ I acknowledged, the familiar burn of desire flaring up once more, this time tinged with the promise of retribution. ‘But this game is far from over. And I am no stranger to strategy.’

As I turned back to the safety of my dorm, my thoughts were a whirlwind, a tempest of longing and frustration. To break free from this gilded prison, to claim my destiny on my terms—I would need to be cunning, patient.