"Don't be dramatic, sweetheart. We were helping you."
This time, I did laugh, the sound harsh and bitter even to my own ears. I pushed the coffee back toward her with one finger, making sure not to touch the rim.
"I'm not drinking anything you give me. Been there, done that."
My father shifted uncomfortably beside her, finally looking up. "Son, you don't understand our situation. The debts, the—"
"Stop," I cut him off, my voice rising despite my attempts to stay calm. "Just stop. You drugged me and tried to sell me to a predator. What situation justifies that?"
Heads turned at nearby tables. A couple paused their conversation to stare. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a man with long black hair glance up from his phone. His red and white leather motorcycle jacket creaked as he adjusted his position, eyes lingering on our table before returning to his screen with too much deliberation to be casual.
My mother leaned forward, perfectly manicured nails digging into the tabletop as she hissed, "Lower your voice. You're embarrassing us."
"I'm embarrassing YOU?" The words exploded from me as I pushed back my chair and stood, hands planted on the table as I loomed over her. My whole body trembled with a rage so pure it felt like electricity in my veins. "You drugged your own son. You handed me over to a man who—who collects people like they're objects!"
"Alex Harris is worth millions," my mother snapped, abandoning her sugary facade as her eyes darted nervously to the people watching our drama unfold. "Do you have any idea what that would have meant for this family? For your father and me? For Bradley?"
And there it was. The truth, finally spoken aloud.
"But not for me," I said, my voice dropping to a near-whisper as the pieces clicked into place with devastating clarity. "What would it have meant for me, Mother?"
She blinked, genuine confusion crossing her features as if the question had never occurred to her. "You would have been takencare of," she said finally, the words hollow. "Harris promised you'd want for nothing."
"Except my freedom," I finished for her. "Except my dignity. Except my life."
My father's face had gone ashen. "Margaret, what exactly did this arrangement entail?"
So he hadn't known the full extent. That should have made me feel better, but somehow it only made everything worse—that my father was willing to go along with something without understanding what he was agreeing to.
"It doesn't matter now," my mother replied dismissively. "Connor's made his choice, hasn't he? Running off with that crippled old man instead of helping his family."
The casual cruelty in her words hit me like a physical blow. Not just toward me, but toward Julian—the man who had saved me, protected me, valued me in ways my own family never had.
"His name is Julian Montgomery," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded despite the storm raging inside me. "And he's worth more than Harris could ever be."
My mother's eyes widened fractionally. "Montgomery? The Montgomery Industries Montgomery?"
The naked greed that flashed across her face made my stomach turn. Even now, she was calculating, assessing value, trying to determine if I was worth more to her with Julian than I would have been with Harris.
"Yes," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "Congratulations, Mother. Your merchandise married up."
My father at least had the decency to look ashamed, running a trembling hand over his face. "Connor, please sit down. Let's discuss this rationally."
"Rationally?" I repeated, the word tasting like ashes in my mouth. "There's nothing rational about selling your child.There's nothing rational about drugging someone and handing them over to a stranger."
"You always were too sensitive," my mother said, straightening her already perfect posture. "This is why we couldn't tell you beforehand. We knew you'd overreact."
I stared at her, truly seeing her for the first time in my life. There was no love in those eyes, no maternal warmth, no regret—just cold calculation and annoyance that her plans had been disrupted.
"I was never your son," I said finally, the words falling from my lips with the weight of absolute truth. "I was your retirement plan."
My mother didn't deny it. She didn't even try. Instead, she sighed as if I was being particularly tiresome and checked her watch.
"Are you finished with this tantrum? Because if you're not going to be reasonable, your father and I have better things to do."
And in that moment, I knew without a doubt that no explanation she could offer would ever justify what they'd done. No financial difficulty, no family crisis, nothing could make selling your child an acceptable solution.
The Thai man was watching us openly now, his casual pose belied by the alertness in his eyes. Something about his presence made me feel oddly safer, as if I wasn't completely alone in this confrontation.
