Chapter 9 The Crossroad of Fate

The Dorian Residence, 3 A.M.

The clock ticked softly in the grand yet quiet residence. It was 3 a.m. when Timothy finally pushed open the polished double doors of the living area, exhaustion weighing heavily in every step. The dim glow from the chandelier cast long shadows across the marble floor, but before he could even lower his coat, a familiar weight sprang against him.

“Fester,” Tim breathed, his voice cracking with relief as the sleek black-and-white cat leapt gracefully onto his chest. The feline curled against him as though he’d been waiting at the door all night. Timothy buried his face into Fester’s soft fur, the warmth a soothing balm against the cold mask he wore for the world.

“Hey, little monster,” he whispered, his words muffled against the purr that vibrated warmly against his skin. Fester meowed softly, rubbing his head insistently against Tim’s jawline as if to remind him: you’re not alone.

Then light flooded the room.

Tim squinted and turned. She stood at the bottom of the gleaming stairs, beneath the soft glow of the gold surrounding her, Olivia. She wore a shining silk nightdress, the belt loosely knotted, her hair drifting softly around her cheeks. Her eyes—those endless, kind eyes looked calmly at him, though they held behind them the soft line of wakefulness.

“Mother,” Tim said gently, guilt flickering across his face. “What are you doing up at this hour? You should be in bed.”

He crossed the room quickly, Fester still perched possessively on his shoulder. Olivia opened her arms, and Timothy leaned into them without hesitation, surrendering to the embrace he would never admit he craved.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Olivia admitted softly, her hand rising instinctively to tuck a loose auburn curl back behind his ear. It was a gesture she had done since the day he first walked into her life, a frightened, broken boy, and it had never left her.

Tim closed his eyes, pressing a kiss against her cheek. “You need to realise I’m no longer a boy, Mother,” he murmured, though his voice carried a tenderness reserved only for her. “I can take care of myself now. And you, too.”

Her chuckle reverberated against his chest as he rested his head on her shoulder. “You know that’s not possible,” she whispered. “You’ll always be my little Timothy.”

A rare smile curved his lips at her words, genuine, unguarded. For a fleeting moment, the steel in him softened.

But Olivia, ever perceptive, did not linger in the softness. She stepped back slightly, her tone shifting, carrying the calm firmness of a woman who had weathered storms. “So,” she began, business-like, “Paul told me you finally met with the Wellman children tonight.”

At her words, Tim stiffened. Subtle, but Olivia caught it. He exhaled slowly, smoothing his features back into composure before replying.

“Paul had no right speaking to you about that yet.” His voice was cool, measured, but beneath it a flicker of irritation sparked.

Olivia raised one brow, a silent reminder of her authority in his life. “You do remember Paul worked for me before he ever worked for you, don’t you?”

Tim shrugged, eyes darting away for the briefest second before returning to hers. “I know,” he admitted. “But Mother… I wanted to be the one to tell you myself. Paul should have waited.”

Olivia’s chuckle was light, almost disarming, but her words carried weight. She glided to the nearby velvet couch and lowered herself with effortless grace, her robe settling around her like a queen’s gown. Her gaze never wavered as she fixed it on him.

“Paul reports to me on everything, Timothy, and you know that,” she said evenly. “I see no reason for you to be worked up about this.” She tilted her head slightly, studying him with those sharp, unblinking eyes that had guided him through storms. “Or…” Her tone dropped, steady, probing. “…do you have an issue with that?”

Tim exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he stepped closer. He studied her face, those fine lines that time had carved, reminders of a woman well past her prime, and yet… Olivia Dorian still commanded any room she entered. Poised. Regal. A force cloaked in elegance, whose authority could not be denied.

“No, Mother,” he said softly, his voice stripped of its usual armour. “I don’t have an issue with that. It’s our plan, after all.”

“Exactly,” Olivia replied, her voice firm yet almost maternal."And you must never forget that either."

Tim nodded, the obeisance in the gesture a sight to see infrequently “I won’t,” he promised, leaning down to brush her cheek with a gentle kiss before retreating.

“Goodnight, Mother.”

“Goodnight, my son,” she answered, her voice carrying warmth but also the unspoken reminder of the burden they shared.

Tim left the living area with Fester draped around his neck like a protective scarf, the cat’s purring a steady hum against his chest. The hallway stretched ahead, gilded with dim golden lights, but as he walked, the silence pressed in on him.

And like it always did at this hour, the memories came creeping back.

Fifteen years of pain. Fifteen years of anguish, rage, and torture carved into his very soul.

By the time he reached his bedroom, every step felt heavier. He slipped under the satin sheets, Fester curling faithfully at his side, and just as sleep threatened to take him, one memory cut through the fog of exhaustion with merciless clarity.

The memory of the night everything changed.

The night he first met Olivia Dorian.

 —-

Flashback (Ten Years Ago)

Timothy was fifteen.

Two years had passed since his mother’s lifeless body was carried out of the shack they once called home. Two years since the world had abandoned him and Fester, leaving them to fend for themselves against a city that did not care if they lived or died.

The streets of Nashville were no place for a boy, yet the streets became his home. He learned quickly that pity was a luxury no one spared. He became a shadow among alleys, slipping hands into strangers’ pockets when hunger gnawed too deep, stealing crusts of bread or loose change to keep both himself and Fester alive.

Until the day his luck ran out.

A thick, calloused hand clamped onto his arm with the force of an iron shackle. “You little thief!” a voice bellowed, sharp and grating like rusted metal.

Timothy’s heart seized. He spun to face her—a robust, heavyset woman with wild curls pinned back and an apron smeared with grease. Mrs. Patty. She ran the bare parlour that squatted at the corner of the shallow alley in Nashville’s forgotten quarter. A place locals called the gutter of the glittering city.

“You dare try to steal from me?” Her words thundered down the alley, loud enough to make heads turn. Faces appeared in nearby doorways, eyes following, but no one moved. No one helped. In this part of town, survival was every man for himself.

“Please, ma’am,” Timothy stammered, his thin body trembling as Fester hissed from the shadows nearby. “I just… I just want to feed.”

“Feed, huh?” Mrs Patty sneered, her lips curling as though the word itself disgusted her. With a sudden twist of her head, she spat—hot and vile across his face. Timothy flinched, his pride burning hotter than the sting of saliva on his skin.

“You’ll feed, boy,” she snarled, her fingers digging deeper into his arm as he winced. “But you’ll work for it. Do you hear me? You filthy piece of street trash!”

She dragged him along, his shoes scraping the cobblestones, his protests drowned by her grip that only tightened the more he struggled.

Around them, the alley remained indifferent. Men leaned against broken fences, women eyed from windows, and children watched with hollow curiosity. No one interfered.

And Timothy knew deep in his chest, where fear coiled like a serpent, that he was in no position to call for help, because in this part of Nashville, no one gave a damn whether a hungry boy lived… or disappeared.

Mrs Patty’s iron grip dragged Timothy down a crooked alley that reeked of sour ale, sweat, and urine. The parlour squatted like a wound in the heart of the ghetto—its paint long stripped away, windows cracked, and its door swinging open to the throb of laughter and slurred shouts spilling into the night.

Inside, the atmosphere was heavy, heavy—painted with tobacco fumes, spilt ale, and the bitter smell of dirty bodies. The tavern vibrated with noise. Coarse men sprawled over twisted tables, tankards spilling, laughter echoing in oafish songs and lewd jokes. The faint light of two flickering bulbs hung suspended above, casting glowing, stretched shadows up the walls.

Girls too young to be women and boys too small to be men darted from table to table, carrying trays filled with drinks or wiping sticky spills. They were as thin as reeds, their faces hollow, their gestures mechanical, like tightly wound puppets.

Timothy’s stomach clenched when his eyes caught a scene that burned itself instantly into his memory.

A boy about his own age, thin as a reed and with the same haunted look Timothy had seen in his own reflection, approached a table where three men lounged. One of them, a brute with a filthy beard and teeth the colour of old corn, grabbed the boy’s wrist mid-serve. With a laugh that rattled like broken glass, he yanked the boy’s hand toward his groin.

“C’mon, boy,” the man slurred, shoving his hips forward. “You like it, don’t ya?”

The boy’s face twisted in disgust, but he didn’t fight. He didn’t dare. The man’s friends roared with filthy laughter, slamming their fists on the table as if it were the best joke of the night.

After a moment of sick amusement, the brute shoved the boy away. The child stumbled, his tray clattering to the floor, beer soaking into the warped wood. He bolted past Timothy, face flushed with shame, but for the briefest second his eyes flicked up—meeting Timothy’s. In that glance was everything: fear, helplessness… and a silent warning.

Timothy’s breath caught. His insides churned.

And through it all, Mrs Patty stood by, watching. Her arms folded, her lips curled in faint satisfaction, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. Because to her, it wasn’t.

She yanked Timothy forward again, dragging him through the haze of laughter and despair until they reached a back room. The door creaked open to reveal stacks of chipped cups, plates crusted with rot, and the sour stench of stale beer mixed with mould.

Mrs Patty shoved him inside.

“You work for me now, boy,” she barked, her voice as sharp as broken glass. “You so much as think about running, I’ll tell the sheriff myself. Let him throw you into a home for thieves like you.” Her grin spread wide, cruel. “And trust me, it ain’t nice in there.”

Timothy swallowed hard, his throat dry, his hands trembling at his sides.

“You hear me, boy?”

He nodded.

“That’s better,” she said, satisfied, and slammed the door behind her.

And just like that, Timothy’s freedom ended. He became one of Mrs Patty’s “show boys”—scrubbing plates, serving drinks, carrying trays, and learning the cruel reality that in this place, survival was the only law.

Timothy’s days at Mrs Patty’s parlour blurred into an endless cycle of misery. Morning to night, his small hands worked tirelessly—scrubbing dishes crusted with beer foam and grease until his knuckles cracked, sweeping the sticky floors where drunken feet shuffled and staggered, or carrying trays heavy with mugs that sloshed over his arms.

Only Fester, his one companion in the world, gave him comfort. When no one was looking, Timothy would sneak scraps of leftover bread or meat to his furry friend, hiding him beneath his shirt until he could crouch in a corner and share what little food he had.

But Mrs Patty noticed everything.

One night, catching Timothy feeding Fester, she stormed across the room, her bulk shaking the floor, her face red with fury. She spat in Timothy’s face, the wetness sliding down his cheek as her palm cracked across him with a sharp slap that left his ear ringing.

“The next time I see that filthy cat, I’ll skin it alive!” she snarled.

Timothy swallowed his cry, clutching Fester close in the shadows later, whispering promises to keep him safe.

But Mrs Patty’s wrath wasn’t the only torment in that place. Her guests—the drunk, foul-mouthed men who filled the parlour were far worse.

One night, while Timothy bent over a table to collect empty mugs, a man with greasy hair and hands black with grime grabbed him roughly by the waist. His breath reeked of sour alcohol and vomit as he whispered into Timothy’s ear.

“What’s a fine boy like you doin’ servin’ in a dump like this?”

Timothy stiffened, holding his breath, praying the man would let go. But the hand only tightened on him, fingers squeezing his backside with vulgar familiarity.

Timothy wanted to gag. The man’s hot, wet breath made his stomach twist, but he forced himself still. Any reaction, he knew, would bring Mrs Patty’s wrath—and maybe no food for days.

But then the man went further. He took Timothy’s small hand and shoved it onto his crotch, already hard beneath filthy trousers.

“You like it, boy,” he growled, his friends around the table bursting into coarse laughter. “I know you do!”

“Let me go!” Timothy cried, his voice breaking.

Instead, the man pinned him tighter, his tongue thick, slimy, and sour, dragging across half of Timothy’s face in a revolting lick. The men howled with laughter as Timothy squirmed, his body trembling with disgust and fear.

Finally, with a shove, the man released him.

Timothy didn’t wait. He bolted. Out of the parlour, into the night.

The rain fell in sheets, cold and merciless, soaking through his thin shirt as he ran blindly through the streets. His bare feet slapped against puddles, his chest heaving, tears mixing with the rain until he couldn’t tell one from the other. He didn’t know where he was going—only that he had to run, run until his lungs gave out.

Timothy stumbled into the middle of the deserted crossroad, chest heaving, the rain drumming down in relentless sheets. His thin shirt clung to his body, heavy and cold, his tears indistinguishable from the water running down his face. He fell to his knees, his small frame shaking with exhaustion and despair.

Then—a touch. Something warm against his leg.

He looked down through the blur of rain and tears to see Fester. The little cat was soaked, fur plastered flat, eyes wide and glistening in the dark. He meowed, insistent, rubbing his tiny body against Timothy’s shin as though to say: You are not alone. You must never leave me behind again.

Timothy’s lips trembled as he bent, arms reaching to gather the only soul who had never abandoned him—

A horn blared.

Blinding headlights flooded the crossroad.

Timothy barely had time to gasp before the impact came, brutal and unforgiving. The force lifted him, bones jolting in agony, before his body slammed against the wet asphalt. His face struck first, then the rest of him crumpled like a rag doll. Pain exploded through every limb.

For a moment, silence. Only the rain. Only his ragged breaths.

The car idled, brake lights glowing red in the downpour. It paused—as if the driver debated between mercy and cruelty.

Then the engine roared. The vehicle reversed, swerving around him, and sped into the night—leaving him broken in the middle of the road.

Timothy’s vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. His chest heaved desperately, every inhale a knife, every exhale a battle. His little hands clawed weakly at the wet ground.

Fester crawled onto his chest, tiny paws pressing against him. The cat’s rough tongue licked Timothy’s bloodied cheek, meowing over and over, the sound pitiful and desperate—as though calling him back from the abyss.

Timothy tried. He really did. His lips parted, his lungs strained, but his body betrayed him. The world dimmed, his breath shallow, his strength slipping away like water through cupped hands.

The last thing he saw was Fester’s blurred outline above him, the cat’s fur glistening with rain, eyes filled with sorrow. The last thing he heard was that cry—raw, mournful, eternal.

Timothy gasped once more, his body shuddering violently, then his eyes rolled shut.

The boy lay still.

At that crossroads, in the heart of the storm, Timothy’s childhood ended.