Asher stood in front of the building where his father's funeral was being held.
Twelve years since he last came home.
He had traveled five thousand miles. Stood five feet away. And he still hadn't stepped inside.
He leaned against a black car, trying to steady himself. His black three-piece suit was too perfect for how he felt, the jacket folded neatly over one arm like an afterthought. Between two fingers, a cigarette soldered, untouched. His sunglasses—designer, like everything else he wore—hid the dark hollows beneath his eyes, shadows of nights spent without sleep.
He just stood there, letting the world wait.
The cigarette burned down to the filter before he even noticed. And still, all he could hear was the voice that had haunted him for years.
"I'm ashamed that you're my son."
He finally took a drag. Then he dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath his heel, slid into his jacket, and climbed into the waiting car. It rolled forward without a word, headed for the private entrance.
Outside the estate, chaos had erupted—paparazzi flashing cameras, reporters shouting over each other, metal barricades bending as the crowd surged forward. Security guards pushed back, holding the line.
And then someone shouted his name. "Asher! Over here!" "Why now?" "Do you have a statement?"
He didn't respond. He didn't even glance in their direction. The side entrance opened, and he slipped through just before the noise became unbearable. He walked straight to the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. Private.
Inside the lift, he let his head fall back against the wall and exhaled slowly.
This was just the beginning.
The doors opened to cold air and silence. White lilies lined the walls, arranged with excessive elegance. The kind of extravagant grief his father had always preferred—tasteful, expensive, public.
A massive portrait of the man dominated the far wall. Stoic. Regal. Untouched.
Asher's hands stayed in his pockets as he took it all in.
Then a voice echoed through the room, amplified and steady. "We are all gathered here today to honour a man who built more than an empire…"
The voice was familiar. Too familiar.
Asher's feet moved before his mind did, drawn toward the sound. He rounded a corner.
And there he was.
Adrian.
Tall and composed behind the podium, his posture rigid with control. He wore a midnight-black suit, tailored sharp enough to cut. His dark hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. The chandeliers caught on the smooth planes of his skin, making him look like he hadn't aged a day—or like grief had never touched him.
Their eyes met across the room.
Asher froze. A whisper passed through the mourners like wind through leaves. Adrian stopped mid-sentence. The room shifted. Eyes turned. Heads tilted.
Asher lowered his gaze. He pulled his hands from his pockets, rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous tic he hadn't outgrown.
A voice rose from the front row. "Asher."
He looked up. Evelyn.
She stood now, elegant in her black dress, her expression composed but not cold. Her presence, like always, was a quiet force.
He walked toward her, uncertain. "Mom," he said softly.
She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're handsome now," she said with a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes.
He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. She guided him to sit beside her in the front row and patted his head gently. An old gesture, almost forgotten.
At the podium, Adrian cleared his throat, his voice finding strength again. "We are all here to honour a man who built more than an empire…"
By the time the speeches ended, the room had changed. Formal mourning gave way to soft chatter, the clink of glasses, the rustle of silk. Everyone returned to their roles: friends, partners, business associates. The grieving sons became public figures again.
Asher slipped away toward the casket room. He paused at the door, seeing his mother already there. She stood alone, staring down at the body of the man they had both known so differently.
"I'll come later," he said quietly from the doorway.
"You're already very late," she replied, without turning.
"It wasn't my choice to go."
Her voice was calm, but firm. "But not coming back—that was."
She turned at last, looking at him with unreadable eyes. "You can take off your sunglasses," she said. "It's not your father's will that your eyes stay dry." Then she left.
Asher removed the glasses and stepped closer. The sight of his father's face—still, pale, unfamiliar in death as a whiskey glass crashes onto the floor.
Twenty-one hours earlier — London.
"Asher. Asher!"
The voices were loud now. DJ and Vinny stood over him, trying to shake him awake. The studio was a mess—bottles, ashtrays, scattered sheet music. Asher was passed out on the sofa, unmoving.
Nina, calm as ever, stood in the doorway holding a jug. Without a word, she walked over and dumped the cold water straight onto him.
DJ and Vinny shouted in unison. "Nina!"
"What?" she said. "It worked."
Asher jolted upright, coughing and drenched. He struggled to sit up, his head spinning.
Vinny's voice came in fast, anxious. "Dude, are you out of your mind? Did you take something? We were freaking out—"
Asher groaned, rubbing his temples. "What do you want…"
They went silent.
Asher noticed the sudden quiet. He looked up to find the three of them exchanging nervous glances.
Vinny finally spoke, softly. "I know you're already going through a lot. But after you and Mi…"
Asher lit a cigarette, not even blinking. "Is that all?"
Nina folded her arms, leaning against the table. "Your father died. Your brother called."
Vinny and DJ both gasped. "Nina!"
"What?" she said again, unbothered.
The lighter's flame flickered close to Asher's face. He didn't flinch.
Vinny got the message. He stepped forward. "We'll give you space. Call us if you need anything."
Asher nodded faintly. Once alone, he picked up his phone. The screen lit up with missed calls—Adrian.
The sound of the door closing behind them pulled him back to the present.
Now, standing before the casket, all he felt was the ache of having come too late.
unlocked something in his chest.
He stared. Then slowly, his knees gave out, and he sank to the floor. One hand covered his face, the other clenched into a fist. The grief he had held back for twelve years came pouring out in silence.
He dropped to his knees. Covered his face. Let it break him.
Outside, near the gate, Adrian watched from a distance. A staff member approached carefully. "Sir, it's time."
Adrian didn't move.
"The body is—"
Adrian turned to him with a look. "…Okay, sir."
The funeral ended. Guests began to leave, the line of black cars stretching along the drive. Asher waited near the steps for his ride, sunglasses back on, shoulders tight. The peace cracked again.
A reporter burst past security, racing toward him.
"Mr. Asher, do you have any comment about your father's sudden death? Are the rumours true—do you believe your stepmother and brother were involved? And is it true you never forgave your father for sending you away because of your—"
He didn't finish.
Adrian was there in an instant, shoving the man into a guard's grip. Then he turned to Asher, voice low. "Are you okay?"
Asher looked at him. Cold. Empty. He took off his sunglasses.
"I'm not the one who should be grieving," he said quietly.
Adrian flinched. "Asher—"
"You lost a father," Asher cut in. "I lost everything."
Then he slid into the red Porsche and drove away.
Asher sat in the dimly lit bar, whiskey glass in hand, his gaze unfocused. The world outside felt like a distant echo, muted and hollow. The glass was cold against his fingers, the ice clinking softly as it melted.
Noah, sitting beside him, hadn't spoken for a while, but Asher could feel his concern hanging in the air, unspoken but impossible to ignore. "I'm glad you called today," Noah said, his voice gentle, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the chill in Asher's chest. "But seriously—no paparazzi? You're still his son. This could blow up."
Asher's lips twitched into a bitter smile. He tipped his glass back, swallowing the burn in one long gulp. "Please… not you too. Don't… don't sound like him."
Noah sighed, his eyes tracing the tight lines of Asher's face, the exhaustion from a lifetime of conflict and loss clearly etched there. "What's your problem with Adrian, huh? He was a decent guy in school. Always was."
"Decent?" Asher's voice was hoarse, the words rough as they scraped their way out. "He's a tattletale rat. Told my father about my boyfriend just to play perfect son. Got me exiled." His throat tightened, the old wound still raw. "I never… I never saw it. I was too stupid to see it."
There was a long pause, Noah's eyes studying him in silence. Finally, Noah leaned in closer, his voice dropping low. "Your boyfriend? That asshole?" He paused, making sure Asher was listening. "You really didn't know, did you? He was a predator, Asher. A baster-rapist. Everyone knew… except you."
Asher froze, the words sinking in. His fingers trembled slightly as he set the glass down, the weight of the truth pressing down on him. "Maybe Adrian wasn't trying to ruin your life. Maybe he was trying to save it."
Asher didn't answer. His mind was numb, the spinning thoughts like smoke, too thick to grasp. Noah's voice broke through again, a soft sigh escaping him. "We'll get you home, alright?"
The drive was quiet. Asher didn't even notice when the car stopped, only when the engine fell silent. Noah gave him a quick nod before he got out, walking around to Asher's side. They stood at the base of the stairs for a moment. The night was still, too still.
Asher's legs were heavy, but the walk upstairs was a blur, the house eerily quiet.
Asher paused at the top of the stairs, his gaze lingering on Adrian's door. The soft glow of light seeping through the cracks felt both inviting and distant.
He hesitated, unsure whether to knock.He knocked, not waiting for an answer.
The door creaked open, revealing Adrian standing there—shirtless, backlit by the moonlight, his figure a silhouette carved in silver. Asher lingered in the doorway, momentarily lost in the sight of him, the tension in the air thick and unspoken.
Without turning, Adrian spoke, his voice low, almost cautious. "Put the drinks on the table."
Confused, Asher took a step forward. "Sorry?"
Adrian turned sharply, his expression shifting to one of surprise. "What the—?"
A servant appeared then, setting the glasses and bottle down on the table before silently retreating. The door had been open the entire time.
Realisation dawned on Asher. "Oh."
Their eyes locked, the space between them charged with an energy that hadn't been there in years. Slowly, Adrian offered a faint, guarded smile.
"I met with Noah today," Asher said, his voice low, almost hesitant. "He told me—"
Adrian's smile softened, a silent understanding passing between them. "Wanna join me for a drink?"
It was an offering, an olive branch that neither of them knew how to truly extend.
Asher exhaled, his breath shaky. "Sounds good."
They moved to the balcony. The stars above shimmered softly, the city lights far below nothing but a distant hum. The drinks came easily, the laughter slower but growing with every shared moment. It was like a memory they were building together, piece by piece, despite the ghosts of the past lingering.
Adrian's smile deepened, just a fraction, and for a moment, everything felt almost like it used to.
And then, the night blurred.
Morning.
The sunlight sliced through the curtains, harsh and unforgiving.
Asher groaned, the headache pounding at his skull, and squinted against the light. It took him a moment to register where he was, the unfamiliar sheets tangled around his legs.
He was still in Adrian's room.
Clothes lay scattered across the floor. The room was a mess.
His heart stuttered.
He shifted—his hand brushing against something warm. He turned.
Adrian.