"There's a good boy," my mother cooed, finally releasing my wrist to pat my cheek.
I wanted to spit the champagne back into the glass, but I'd already swallowed. I set the flute down harder than necessary, the stem nearly snapping between my fingers.
I knew should have just gotten up and ran for the door when I first suspected something. But, no, I had to be an idiot and actually drink the cloudy alcohol.
Stupid. So stupid.
"What did you—" I started, but my words already felt thick, like my tongue had doubled in size.
The room tilted slightly, then righted itself, and then tilted again. The chandeliers above began to blur, their crystal pendants smearing into streaks of light.
My limbs felt simultaneously heavy as concrete and light as balloons. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.
Note to self: never accept anything from people who'd sell a kidney if it meant a new car.
"Are you feeling alright, Connor?" my father asked, his voice echoing strangely. "You look a bit peaked."
I tried to focus on his face, but it kept shifting, features rearranging themselves in a way that would have been fascinating if it wasn't so terrifying.
My grandfather's concerned expression swam into view momentarily before dissolving back into the soup my vision had become.
"What's... happening?" I managed to ask, though my words slurred together.
"Just relax," my mother said, her smile turning predatory. "Everything's going to be fine."
Fine for who?
The well-dressed businessman appeared at our table, looming over me like some kind of corporate grim reaper. Up close, his eyes were cold, assessing me like I was merchandise at an auction.
"Margaret," he said, his voice smooth and controlled. "Is our young friend ready to continue our discussion?"
My mother stood, straightening her expensive dress. "Mr. Harris, this is my son Connor. Connor, this is Mr. Harris, a business associate of mine."
Business associate? Since when did my mother, who never had a real job in her life, have business associates who looked like they ate small companies for breakfast?
"Pleasure," Harris said, not bothering to extend his hand. His gaze swept over me, lingering in a way that made my skin crawl even through the drug haze.
My father shifted in his seat, opening his mouth as if to say something. My mother's hand immediately clamped down on his arm, her fingers digging in so hard I could see the fabric of his suit jacket pucker.
He closed his mouth.
"Margaret, what's going on?" My grandfather's voice cut through the fog in my brain for a moment. "You said this was a family dinner."
"It is, Dad. Just with a little business mixed in." My mother's laugh sounded brittle. "Connor's going to help Mr. Harris with a project."
Project? What project?
The thought hit me like a bucket of ice water, temporarily clearing some of the fog. My parents had drugged me. The realization made my stomach heave.
"I think we should continue this somewhere more private," Harris said, his hand reaching for my arm. "The car is waiting."
My mother nodded eagerly. "Connor will be happy to go with you, won't you, dear?"
The room spun sickeningly as panic surged through me. This couldn't be happening. Not even my parents could be this cruel, this monstrous, but the evidence was right in front of me—in the drug coursing through my system, in Harris's proprietary touch, in my mother's cold eyes calculating what she'd gain from this transaction.
"I don't... feel good," I mumbled, which was both a stalling tactic and the absolute truth.
"He'll be fine once we get him settled," Harris assured my mother, as if I wasn't sitting right there. His fingers wrapped around my bicep, strong enough to bruise.
