Chapter 2 - Silent Rebellions
Adrian’s breath caught in his throat. The cold, impenetrable armor he had worn since taking over the family enterprise cracked down the center. He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Mason, the second boy, stepped forward, his eyes darting between Adrian’s polished black shoes and his gray-blue eyes. Max, the quieter one, took half a step behind Milo, while Micah—the smallest—reached out and casually grabbed the hem of Milo’s cream jacket.
"Milo, come on," Mason whispered, though his eyes never left Adrian’s face. "She said stay together."
"He has our dimple," Milo insisted, pointing a small finger toward Adrian's cheek.
Adrian sank to one knee on the cold marble floor, completely unconcerned with the tailored fabric of his suit. He brought himself eye-level with the four boys. Up close, the resemblance wasn't just striking; it was a mirror spanning six years of lost time.
"Who brought you here?" Adrian’s voice was lower than intended, gravelly with a sudden, suffocating realization.
"Our mom," Micah mumbled, leaning his cheek against Milo’s shoulder. "She's working."
Milo took Adrian’s silence as an invitation. He reached out with a tiny hand and pointed to the faint tattoo trailing down Adrian's neck. "Is that real?"
Before Adrian could speak, the bathroom door creaked open again. The sound of high-end dining room chatter leaked inside for a fraction of a second before the four boys turned in unison and began heading toward the exit.
"We have to go," Mason declared. "She gets worried."
"Wait," Adrian said, standing up quickly.
The four boys didn't wait. They pushed through the heavy doors with the easy energy of six-year-olds on a mission, their small feet pattering against the carpeted corridor. Adrian followed, his stride long and imposing, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way no corporate takeover or street war had ever managed to cause.
They led him out of the secluded corridor and into the grand dining area.
Across the room, illuminated by crystal chandeliers, stood a woman in a faded, simple server uniform. She was speaking anxiously with the restaurant manager, her hands hovering nervously over two worn, faded canvas duffel bags resting at her feet. Her long brown hair was styled loosely, her skin fair and pale with exhaustion.
Mara Bennett.
She turned to check on her sons.
May you like
Her brown eyes swept past the marble pillars, caught the four boys in cream jackets, and then traveled two feet higher to lock onto the man standing right behind them.
Everything in her face vanished. The color, the breath, six years of constructed emotional walls—gone in a single heartbeat.
