X didn’t look up, just kept fiddling with his bracelets. “I was seeing this girl. Olivia. Scholarship kid. Quiet. Wicked smart. We kept it low for a few months. But my mom found out.”
Silence.
“She didn’t yell,” he added. “Didn’t scream. Just… made a few calls. Next thing I know, Liv’s crying in the janitor’s closet, saying she can’t take it. Transferred back home after Christmas. Never came back.”
I swallowed hard.
“It’s not about the girl,” X said, finally meeting my eyes. “It’s about the system. About the kind of world we live in.”
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, backing away emotionally, “I’m not gonna torch my future for someone who couldn’t handle the heat.”
Liar. My own words tasted like ash.
“Your call, man,” Tristan said, shaking his head. “But don’t pretend you’re fine. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
I shrugged, grabbed my phone, and left the gym.
The dining room at my house was ridiculous.
Twenty-foot ceilings. Crystal chandeliers. A fireplace that never saw wood because it was gas and glowed like it belonged in a Renaissance painting. The table was mahogany, imported from somewhere like Morocco or Monaco—hell, I couldn’t remember—and it could seat twenty even though there were only three of us.
Me. My mother. My father.
The Holt triumvirate.
Dinner was formal. No phones. Starched napkins. Winefor my parents, Pellegrino for me. My mom wore pearls. My dad wore a suit even though he worked from home all day.
I wore a mask.
Emotionless. Controlled.
My fork clicked against the porcelain as I chased a piece of seared duck breast around my plate, barely tasting anything.
“You did the right thing, son,” my dad said, breaking the silence.
I didn’t look up.
“We heard the girl’s laying low. Probably realized she was out of her league.”
My mother sipped her wine delicately, not saying a word. But her silence was smug. Triumphant.
“I know it wasn’t easy,” my dad continued, “but you’re a Holt. And we don’t let emotions steer the ship. Wearethe damn ship.”
Right. The legacy. The name. The burden.
“She would’ve held you back,” he added. “Notre Dame sees discipline. Focus. Family unity. Not teenage soap operas.”
I stabbed a green bean so hard it split open.
“And I hear,” he added with a sly smirk, “there’s a new student transferring in after holiday break.”
My mother’s eyes lit up.
“British,” she said, finally speaking. “Connected to the royal family. Distant cousin, but still—it plays well.”
“She’s stunning,” my dad said, winking at me like I was his frat brother and not his kid. “Sharp, well-bred. Speaks three languages. Her family’s been looking into property in Newport. Perfect timing.”
I didn’t respond.
