Breakfast at the ckwell household was always torture, but Alex endured it. For his mother. For his brother. For reasons he didn’t even understand himself anymore.

Alex sat quietly, forcing himself to eat the eggs and toast on his te. His father’s booming voice echoed through the dining room as he shouted at someone on the phone, the tension already thick before the day had even started.

When Charles ckwell finally ended the call, he walked over to his seat, the air around himmanding as usual. His gaze immediately zeroed in on Alex’s cheek.

The bruise stood out, purple and angry against his skin.

Alex felt his father’s eyes on him before the man even said a word.

Charles took his seat, his expression hardening. “What happened to your face?”

Alex didn’t look up, didn’t stop cutting his food. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” his father repeated, his tone sharp. “Hope you won.”

Alex hummed in response, a vague sound that wasn’t a yes or a no. He didn’t care to give his father the satisfaction of a real

answer.

In truth, Alex had fought the night before. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He let the guy hit him a few times-enough to feel the sting of pain, to feel something. Anything other than the fucking guilt eating at him.

It was fucking making him frustrated, he didn’t know how to handle it, how to act.

It was eating at him, wing at his chest like a feral beast.

He didn’t do guilt. Alex ckwell didn’t do guilt.

Yet it was tearing him apart, all because of a stupid girl with teary eyes and a trembling voice. A fucking Turner.

Why did it bother him so much? Why couldn’t he shake the image of her running out of the lounge, humiliated and heartbroken?

He didn’t owe her anything. She knew what she was getting into. He shouldn’t care.

But he did.

And it was driving him insane.

He’s losing his fucking mind.

He sighs when he still feels his father’s gaze on him

Charles wasn’t the type to let things slide. To him, a bruise without a win was a sign of weakness, a blemish on the ckwell name, Alex could feel his father’s judgment without even looking at him.

He remembers when he was fifteen and he had lost a fight. His father had given him a punch so hard he had copsed.

For a moment, the table was quiet, the tension almost suffocating. Then, as if on cue, Charles shifted gears.

“Your mother told me Julian needs a wife,” he said, cutting into his steak.

in his chair, looking like he wanted to disappear.

“So?” Alex said, his voice neutral.

Charles set his fork down, meeting Alex’s gaze. “You think it’s a good idea?”

Alex’s eyes te.

flicked back to his mother, who gave him the smallest nod of encouragement. He sighed, looking down at his

Julian didn’t need a wife. He needed rehab, therapy, and a way out of the shadow their father had cast over him.

“Maybe,” Alex said finally, his voice t. He wasn’t about to start a fight over it. Not now.

His phone buzzed on the table, drawing his attention. It was a message from a house agent.

Alex had been looking for his own ce-a space that was entirely his, bought with his own money. He needed out of this house, out of the constant power ys and expectations.

He knows he couldn’t escape his father and certainly can’t leave his mother and brother, but still he needs a ce he can always escape to, a ce not owned by his Father.

He wanted to text back about checking it out today, maybe he can check it outter. He has nothing to do at the office today.

But before he could think too much about it, Charles’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“I think you should get married first.”

Alex froze, his hand hovering over his phone.

“What?”

Charles leaned back in his chair, his tone casual but firm. “You and Zoe. I think it’s about time you both settled down.”

Alex stared at his father, his mind racing. Was this a joke?

“I’m not ready,” he said, his voice steady.

“Doesn’t matter,” Charles replied. “I think it’s time.”

Alex let out a dryugh, his lips curling into a smirk. He set his knife and fork down, leaning back in his chair as he locked eyes with his father.

“As long as you won’t be the one wearing a suit and standing at the altar to say ‘I do,’ you don’t get to decide that for me, Father.”

The room went still.

Charles stared at Alex, his expression darkening. The air between them crackled with tension, the kind that always simmered just below the surface in their family.

For years, people had said Alex and his father were alike. They looked alike. They acted alike. They were cruel, calcted, and ruthless when they needed to be.

But that was exactly why they couldn’t stand each other. They were too simr, too stubborn, too unwilling to yield.

The rest of the table stayed silent, knowing better than to get involved. Julian kept his head down, his hands fidgeting in hisp. Esther ckwell sipped her tea, her eyes flicking between her husband and son.

A sight she has seen so many times but always makes her so nervous.

The stare-down between Alex and Charles continued, neither of them willing to back down.

Finally, Charles spoke, his voice low and menacing. “You think you can defy me, Alex? You think you can make your own rules?”

Alex didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he smirked. “I don’t know, father, can I?”

Charles’s jaw tightened, his grip on his fork turning his knuckles white.

The rest of breakfast passed in tense silence, the atmosphere so thick it was hard to breathe.

When Alex finally stood to leave, he felt his father’s eyes boring into his back. But he didn’t care.