"Moooom!"
Dylan's voice cracked through the darkness, raw and desperate. His body was soaked in sweat, chest heaving and gasping for air as he jolted awake from a nightmare. His heart was pounding so hard.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead and glanced at the clock beside his bed—it was only three in the morning. The room was dark and silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner.
The nightmare clung like smoke. His mother's fragile voice. The sterile white of her hospital bed. He tried to blink it away, but the image lingered.
"I miss you, Mom," he whispered softly. The emptiness in his chest felt heavier in the quiet of the night. He wished she was there to hold him, to tell him everything would be okay.
Dylan was fifteen years old when his mother died from cancer. Four years have passed, but for Dylan, it still feels like it all happened just yesterday. The pain hasn't gone away.
It was almost noon when Dylan was abruptly awakened by a loud knocking on his bedroom door. He had no idea he had fallen back asleep after waking up earlier that morning.
Still groggy, he hurriedly got out of bed and made his way to the door.
When he opened the door, Dylan's shock was evident on his face, but he quickly masked it to avoid showing it.
Standing before him was Wilson, his father's personal assistant. Dylan knew that wherever his father was, Wilson would be nearby—hence his surprise.
Wilson had been more than just an assistant; he was Dylan's part-time guardian, driver, and even his first teacher.
"Sorry to bother you, Sir Dylan. Your father just arrived this morning. He's currently in the kitchen with his fiancé. He's asking you to join them for lunch," Wilson said politely.
Dylan furrowed his brow, and his expression darkened the moment he heard the word "fiancé." The simple word stirred a mix of emotions within him.
"You can go ahead," Dylan said quietly. Wilson gave a slight bow before turning to leave. "I'll be down shortly."
Dylan closed the door slowly, his hand tightening on the knob until his knuckles whitened.
His father had returned, unannounced, like he always did—sweeping into the house and expecting everything to fall into place.
But this time, he wasn't alone. The mention of a "fiancé" echoed in Dylan's head like a cruel joke.
The dining room was bright, sunlight spilling in from the wide glass windows. The long oak table was set neatly, plates gleaming, silverware aligned with precision.
A faint aroma of roasted chicken and herbs hung in the air, but it did little to settle Dylan's unease.
While eating, Xavier couldn't help but watch his son closely. It struck him that he hadn't noticed how much Dylan had grown.
His work kept him away from home so often that he'd missed most of Dylan's life.
Now, sitting across from his son, he barely recognized the young man he'd become—and the distance between them felt wider than ever.
Things had changed even more after his mother passed away—the light in Dylan's eyes replaced by a guarded coldness.
The silence between father and son was heavy, suffocating, interrupted only by the occasional polite murmur from Anna.
Dylan hardly touched his food. His appetite had fled the moment he saw her sitting at the table, smiling with ease beside his father as if she had always belonged there.
Her hair was neatly tied back, her voice soft, her presence composed—but to Dylan, it felt like an intrusion, a stranger trespassing on memories that should never be replaced.
Finally, Xavier set his utensils down carefully, his voice still calm but with an unmistakable edge.
"By the way, my schedule at the company is quite light these days, and most of my appointments are here in the country, so I'll be staying here at home for a while."
"Your Aunt Anna will also be living here from now on—especially since the wedding is coming up soon. It only makes sense for her to move in." Xavier added.
Dylan froze mid-bite, his face darkened at his father's words.
"Do whatever you want." he said, not looking up from his plate. "I'll stay in my apartment. I don't want to live in this house with you."
He finally met his father's gaze. "It hasn't even been that long since Mom passed, and you've already replaced her. And now you're letting her live here, in our own home," He added.
The discomfort on Anna's face was evident when she heard that from Xavier's son. She set down the spoon she was holding and gently placed her hand over Xavier's, which was clenched tight in anger.
"It's okay. I can always stay in one of our other houses. Let's just give Dylan some space. I know he still hasn't fully accepted me," Anna said with a faint smile, her gaze shifting from Xavier to Dylan.
"I won't allow it." Xavier's voice turned hard. "I make the rules in this house. Whether he likes it or not, your Aunt Anna will live here."
Dylan finally stopped eating, his chair scraped lightly against the floor as he pushed back and rose to his feet.
"Your house? Funny." he spat, his voice tight with anger. "So you still remember you have a house here? Too bad you didn't think of that when Mom was sick. The time when she needed you most—but you weren't there."
His words cut through the air like a blade, cold and merciless. Without waiting for a response, Dylan turned his back and walked briskly toward his room.
Xavier's brows furrowed, his face darkened as his son's words sank deep. Fury surged through him, and with a sharp motion, he slammed his palm against the table, rattling the dishes in helpless anger.
Anna flinched at the sound, but she didn't speak. Instead, she glanced toward the hallway where Dylan had disappeared, her eyes soft with pity—but also with something unreadable, something Dylan wouldn't have trusted even if he saw it.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Dylan didn't head straight to his room. He stopped at his mom's room but couldn't bring himself to enter. Memories flooded him—his mother's loud laugh, her off-key humming in the kitchen, the scent of gardenias and fresh bread.
Then he thought of Anna. Quiet. Composed. Perfectly polite. She smelled like expensive perfume and new handbags.
Her smiles were gentle, but measured. Nothing like Mom, he thought bitterly. Nothing like home.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled his hand back and walked away. He couldn't stay here. Not with a stranger living in his mother's house.
Minutes later, the low growl of his car engine broke the stillness of the driveway as Dylan pulled out, the sun still hanging high in the sky.
His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, jaw set, his father's words echoing in his head.
He drove aimlessly at first, the city blurring past his windows, until frustration pushed him to the side of the road. For a long moment, he just sat there, staring out at nothing.
Finally, he grabbed his phone, scrolling through his contacts. His thumb hovered for a second before pressing call.
"Bro, it's me," he said flatly when Jake answered.
"Let's go out later tonight. I need a drink." His voice was hoarse but steady.
"Yeah, bring Cholo too. I'll send you the place."