Dear Luca Walker,
We are pleased to inform you that you’ve been admitted to our Philosophy and Literature program…
The words blur. My chest tightens. My pulse bangs against my ribs. I look up—straight into the storm.
“It’s an acceptance letter,” I say, voice calm, measured. I set it gently back on the desk like it might detonate.
Mom clicks her tongue, her chin tilting higher. Dad’s glare sharpens, cutting.
“You think this is funny?”
“Not at all.” I clasp my hands behind my back, a soldier under fire. “You asked me what it was. I answered.”
He slams his palm against the desk. The crack echoes. Mom flinches. I don’t. My jaw locks. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing applying to these damn hippie programs, but it stops now,” he growls, teeth bared. “You’re going to the Business School like your brother, and you’ll work at Property Group. Just like I planned. Since the day you were born.”
He grabs the letter, crumples it in one furious fist, and hurls it into the trash.
“Say it out loud. I want to hear it.”
Mom watches me closely, eyes gleaming with a strange thrill, like she’s waiting for blood. Sometimes I swear sheenjoyswatching him break us.
Two choices. Blow this whole thing up and risk him tearing down the wedding, my future, Emma. Or shut my mouth for forty-eight more hours.
Two more days.
So I grit my teeth until my jaw aches and say it. “I’m going to Business School. I’ll work at Property Group.”
He nods once, curt, satisfied. “Good. Now get out.”
I turn sharply, heels clicking against the hardwood. My fists are clenched so tight, my nails cut half-moons into my palms.
Oliver passes me in the hallway, says something light, teasing. I don’t hear a word. My vision tunnels.
Get to your room. Get to your room. Get to your damn room.
I make it. I shut the door softly, controlled. My chest heaves.
My father has no idea how much rage I’ve stored over the years. No clue how close I am to cutting this all off for good.
But soon he’ll find out. Soon he’ll know.
Because in two days, I’ll be a married man.
And there’s not a damn thing he can do to stop me.
Iwas scared Luca would notice the marks time left on my body—my skin isn't as young as it used to be. New sunspots and clumsy little scars draw a different map now, and for a second, I felt self-conscious. But Luca doesn’t seem to see any of it. If anything, he explores me like he’s discovering something new, something he actually enjoys. And I feel the same when he walks out naked, which, come to think of it, has been most of the time.
His body is mature now, strong. There’s more hair than I remember, and his muscles are more defined, but not in that gym-junkie way that looks like their shirts are crying for help.
He wasn’t lying this morning when he said we’d be in bed all day. It honestly feels like we’re trying to make up for lost time—or maybe he’s just compensating for all the years he didn’t give me a single orgasm.
I laugh quietly at the thought, thankful he’s in the shower and I don’t have to explain myself.
Luca’s room is ridiculously minimalist. There are three books on his nightstand with a pair of black-rimmed glasses on top. One of the titles isThe Second Sexby Simone de Beauvoir, the other isThe Republicby Plato, and the last one isThe Art of Warby Sun Tzu. It’s comforting to see he never gave up on his love for philosophy.
A small lamp on the table casts a warm glow across the room, joining the light coming from the cracked bathroom door. Steam billows out, and I can hear him humming a tune I don’t recognize.
