Chapter 10: Dear old dad
The car door shut with a sound like a gunshot in the quiet of the gravel drive. Hardin stood for a moment, staring up at the Black mansion. It wasn’t a house; it was a statement carved in stone and shadow, all Gothic spikes and blind, lead-paned windows. Mist clung to the hills behind it, bleeding the evening light into a dull grey.
“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” he said, adjusting the cuffs of his black suit. The blue of his tie was the only color on him, a shallow pool in a night sky.
Tessa slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, the silk of her blue dress whispering. “It’s a wedding reception. It’s not a jail sentence.” She said it lightly, but she felt the rigid tension in his bicep beneath her fingers. He was a closed fist in expensive wool.
“Same difference,” he muttered, but he let her lead him toward the colossal oak doors.
Inside, the air changed. It was cool, smelling of centuries-old wood polish, damp stone from the vast fireplace, and the faint, sweet-decay scent of cut lilies overflowing from giant urns. A fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows up the paneled walls. The floor was a chessboard of black and white marble, and their footsteps echoed like trespassers in a cathedral.
Voices and the clink of glasses filtered from a set of arched doors to the left. Before they could move, a figure detached from the shadows near the staircase.
“Hey,” Landon said, a genuine smile breaking across his face as he approached them. He looked comfortable in his suit, an easy warmth about him that the house couldn’t swallow. “You guys made it.”
“Hey,” Tessa said, releasing a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. A friendly face.
“You look beautiful, Tessa,” Landon said, and his compliment felt simple, clean.
“Thank you.” She squeezed Hardin’s arm, a silent plea.
Landon turned to Hardin, extending a hand. “Hey. You clean up well, man.”
Hardin looked at the hand for a beat too long before taking it, his grip brief and firm. “So do you,” he said, his voice flat.
Landon’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes held a patient understanding. He glanced between them, this strained boy in a suit and the girl clinging to his arm like an anchor in choppy water. “So,” he said, the word hanging in the chilly air. “We’re brothers.”
Hardin’s jaw worked. He gave a single, sharp nod, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Landon’s shoulder. “Yep.”
The word was a bullet, short and final. Tessa felt the flinch travel up her arm from Hardin’s body. She filled the silence, her voice too bright against the stone. “You must be really happy for your mom and Ken.”
“Yeah, I am,” Landon said, his smile softening into something genuine. He gestured toward the arched doors where the murmur of the party swelled. “C’mon. Let’s get a drink before the speeches start.”
They moved into the main reception area, a long gallery room with portraits of severe-looking people in gilded frames. The crowd was a sea of tailored suits and chiffon, the air thick with perfume and the low thrum of a string quartet. It felt a million miles from the borrowed house with its takeout containers and pillow fights.
A woman with Landon’s gentle eyes and Ken’s smile broke from a cluster of guests and came straight for them. Her gaze locked on Hardin first.
“Look who’s here,” she said, her voice warm. She reached up and placed a careful hand on Hardin’s shoulder. “Good to see you.”
Hardin’s posture softened, just a fraction. He manufactured a smile that almost reached his eyes. “You too, Karen.”
She then turned her attention to Tessa, her expression open and curious. “And you must be Tessa.”
“Yeah,” Tessa said, extending her hand. “I am. It’s so nice to meet you. Congratulations.”
Karen shook her hand firmly. “I’m Karen, Landon’s mom.” She didn’t let go of Tessa’s hand immediately, her eyes flicking back to Hardin. “It means a lot to me that you’re here,” she said, and the sincerity in her voice was a tangible weight.
Hardin dipped his head, the gesture awkward but meant. “Congratulations, Karen.”
“Thanks for coming.”
A new voice cut in, deeper, edged with an authority that made the air itself seem to stiffen. A man in a impeccably cut charcoal suit stood beside Karen, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. It was Ken, Hardin’s father. Hardin straightened up so quickly it was like a soldier snapping to attention. Every trace of his brief, soft smile vanished.
“I’m happy you decided to join us, son,” Ken said, his gaze assessing, cool.
Hardin didn’t say anything. He just looked down at the polished floor, his shoulders rigid under the black suit jacket. The silence between them was a living thing, cold and sharp.
Karen smoothly stepped into the void, looping her arm through Ken’s and turning her focus to Tessa. “So, Landon tells us you’re an English major.”
Tessa grasped the lifeline of normal conversation. “I would love to be,” she said, forcing a smile. “But I think if I wanna be employed, maybe business school is the smarter play. A practical choice.”
Ken spoke up, his businessman’s instincts overriding the personal tension. “If you’re interested in the business side of literature, a friend of mine owns a publishing company. I could make an introduction. An internship, perhaps.”
Hardin’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing on his father. “You mean Vance?”
“Yes,” Ken responded, a hint of surprise at Hardin’s knowledge. “Well, I can call Vance for her. He’s always looking for sharp minds.”
“Of course,” Ken said, watching his son’s reaction carefully. “I’m sure he’d be happy to hear from you.”
The offer hung in the air, generous and complicated. It was a door opening, but it was a door held open by Ken. Tessa felt the implication immediately—a favor, a connection, a debt that would tie her to this man, to this world. Hardin’s silence was a storm warning.
Karen smiled, giving Tessa’s arm a final, gentle pat before tugging at Ken’s. “We should circulate, darling. Let the kids breathe.” She led him away, melting back into the crowd.
Tessa turned to Hardin. His face was a blank, hard mask, but a muscle in his cheek was twitching. He stared at the spot where his father had stood. his breath a controlled, silent rhythm. The offer of the internship with Vance Publishing was a neat trap, all polished wood and professional connections, and Hardin had seen the mechanism click into place behind his father’s eyes. Tessa watched the conflict play out across the rigid line of his shoulders.
“Do you want to leave?” she asked softly, her hand sliding down his arm to find his fingers.
He turned his head, his ocean-blue eyes scanning the crowded room before settling on her. The storm in them was momentarily stilled, replaced by a weary kind of focus. He didn’t answer her question. Instead, he just breathed out, looking at her as if she were the only solid object in a tilting room.
She took his hand, lacing her fingers tightly with his. “C’mon,” she said, offering a small, determined smile. She pulled him gently, leading him away from the crush of guests, through a set of French doors that opened onto a wide stone terrace.
The cold night air was a shock, sharp and clean after the stifling indoor heat. Strands of delicate lights were woven through the branches of bare trees, glittering over a large, black-bottomed pool that reflected the stars. The music from inside became a muted throb.
They stood near the water’s edge, the silence between them vast but different out here. It felt less like a barrier and more like shared space. From inside, a sharp, metallic ting-ting-ting cut through the ambient noise.
Ken was clinking a fork against his champagne flute, beaming at the assembled crowd. “Thank you all for coming,” he boomed, his voice carrying easily through the open doors. “Tonight we celebrate good fortune. And her name is Karen, the love of my life. And frankly,” he said, pulling his new wife closer, “she saved my life.”
Hardin looked down at his own reflection in the dark pool, his expression unreadable.
“I’m blessed,” Ken continued, his voice swelling with genuine emotion. “A new bride, a new life, and not one, but two brilliant sons.” He pointed directly out towards the terrace, his finger aiming at Hardin, then swung it to include Landon inside. “I remember in earlier times, when my greatest pleasure was to listen to Hardin. He loved to recite passages from novels. He would perform them, leaving me in tears.”
The memory, offered so publicly, felt like a violation. Hardin’s whole body went stiff beside her.
Ken turned his gaze, finding Tessa in the doorway shadows. He gave her a warm, inclusive smile before looking back at his son with a mixture of pride and nostalgia that made Tessa’s stomach twist.
Hardin’s voice was a low, rough scrape in the darkness. “Look at that. Not the man I grew up with.” He finally lifted his head, his eyes fixed on his father’s performative joy. “My father was a drunk and nothing more.”
Tessa looked at him, at the raw pain etched beside his eyes. “At least he’s trying,” she offered softly, reaching for his hand again. “More than my father ever did. People change.”
“Clearly,” Hardin said, the word bitten off. He pulled his hand away to run it through his hair, disrupting its styled mess. “But it still doesn’t change what happened.”
His voice broke on the last word. When he turned his face back towards the muted light from the house, his eyes had started to gloss over, shimmering with unshed tears he refused to release.
The sight was a physical blow to her chest. She had seen his anger, his possessiveness, his dark moods. She had never seen this—this fragile, suffocating grief. “Hardin,” she whispered. She stepped in front of him, forcing his gaze down to meet hers. “What happened?” He looked down, a single tear betraying him to trace a path down his cheek. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
The weight of the secret, the thing that lived beneath the tattoos and the poetry and the fights, pressed down on them both in the cold.
He breathed out, looking away towards the glittering windows where his father still held court. His voice, when it came, was hollowed out, stripped bare."One night. When I was eight."
He looked at his dad’s silhouette through the glass, then back towards Tessa. The gloss in his eyes had hardened into something sharp and fractured. "My dad was at the pub. Drunk as usual. He messed with the wrong guys."
A short, sharp breath escaped him, a puff of fog in the night air. "They came to our house for payback. He wasn’t there."
He looked away, his jaw working. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant string quartet. "They found my mom instead."
Tessa didn’t move. She didn’t dare breathe. The world narrowed to the ragged sound of his voice and the paralyzing cold seeping up from the stone.
"I tried to—" His voice cut off. He swallowed, the sound thick and painful. He breathed, in and out, a deliberate, shaky rhythm. "I tried to fight them off. I was eight. I couldn’t."
He finally looked at her, his eyes shattered. "And that’s my dad. The beloved Chancellor Black."
The words hung in the air, final and devastating. The elegant party inside was a grotesque parody. Every laugh, every clink of crystal, was a mockery of that silent house, that small boy, that unimaginable night. Tessa’s hand found his, her fingers icy as they twined with his.
A shadow fell across the light from the doorway. Ken stood there, his smile strained at the edges. He stepped onto the terrace, the door closing behind him with a soft click, muffling the music.
"Getting some air?" he asked, his voice artificially bright.
Hardin didn't answer. He just stared, his body coiled.
Ken’s gaze drifted between them, landing on his son’s ravaged face. A flicker of something—annoyance, impatience—passed behind his eyes. He cleared his throat. "I don’t suppose you recall any of those passages I mentioned?"
Hardin stood up slowly, a predator uncurling. The movement was pure tension. "Not in the way you remember it," he said back, his voice cold enough to freeze the mist in the air.
Ken’s smile vanished. A familiar, defensive mask slipped into place. "Now, Hardin—"
Tessa stood up, stepping smoothly between them. She placed a hand on Hardin’s chest, feeling the furious hammer of his heart against her palm. She turned a brilliant, false smile on Ken, her voice sugary and light.
"I would love to have a dance with your brilliant son," she said, the words cutting through the tension like a knife. She didn't wait for a response. She took Hardin's hand, her grip firm, and pulled him back toward the doors, away from his father, away from the past crowding in on the terrace.
She led him not to the packed dance floor, but to a quieter corner near the grand piano where the shadows were deeper. Without a word, she turned into him, placing one hand on his shoulder. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then his hand settled on her waist, heavy and sure.
They began to sway, a simple back-and-forth motion out of time with the quartet’s waltz. He rested his head against hers, his cheek cool against her temple. She felt him breathe her in, a long, shuddering inhalation that filled his lungs.
She rested her own head on his shoulder, her eyes closed against the glittering room. For a few measures, there was only the solid feel of him, the whisper of her dress, the unsteady rhythm of their hearts.
Then he spun her, a slow, graceful turn that made the room blur. When she came back to him, settled against his chest again, something had loosened. He brushed her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her jaw.He kissed her. It wasn't fierce or desperate, but deep and searching, a silent conversation against her lips. Her hand came up to the back of his neck, holding him there, an anchor in the storm.
They broke apart, breath mingling. Her arms wrapped around his neck; his hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer until not even light could pass between them. In the shadowed corner, for just that moment, they smiled.
The world outside their slow sway—the clinking glasses, his father’s watchful gaze, the ghost of his confession by the pool—all of it receded. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there begin to soften under her touch.
The final notes of the song hung in the air, then dissolved into polite applause. The spell broke. Hardin’s eyes opened, the brief peace in them clouding over again as the room came back into focus. He took her hand, his grip firm.
“Let’s go,” he said, the words low and final.
They didn’t say goodbye. They just walked, hand in hand, through the thinning crowd, past the curious glances, across the chessboard foyer. The heavy oak door groaned shut behind them, muting the party’s din. The cold night air was a shock, washing over them like a baptism.
He opened the passenger door for her, a silent, automatic gesture. She slid in, the silk of her dress whispering against the leather. The interior of the car still held the faint, familiar scent of him—cigarettes and clean cotton and something uniquely, deeply Hardin.
He got in, started the engine, and pulled away from the mansion without a second look. The headlights cut through the mist clinging to the hills. For a long time, the only sound was the hum of the tires on asphalt and the rush of the heater.
“Your dad’s friend,” Tessa said quietly, staring at the broken yellow lines streaming past. “Vance. You know him?”
Hardin’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Yeah. I know him.” He didn’t elaborate. The name was a landmine, and she let it lie.
She watched his profile, illuminated by the dashboard’s soft green glow. The dead tree tattoo peeking above his collar seemed to pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat. “What you told me…” she began, her voice barely audible.
“Don’t,” he interrupted, the word sharp. Then, softer, he repeated it. “Please. Don’t.”
He reached across the console, his hand finding hers in the dark. He laced their fingers together, squeezing once, hard, as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world. He drove one-handed the rest of the way, his thumb stroking absently over her knuckles.
He pulled into the driveway of the grey stone house, the headlights sweeping over the neat, sleeping garden. The place was dark, silent. Their secret. He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet was immense.
They sat for a moment in the dark car, in the dark driveway, holding hands. The weight of the night pressed in from all sides—the glamorous cruelty of the reception, the raw horror of his story, the fragile bubble of this borrowed home.
“Come on,” he said, his voice rough.
They walked up the path. He punched the code into the keypad, the beep unnaturally loud. The door swung open into the cool, lemon-scented dark. He didn’t turn on the main lights, just a small lamp in the living area that cast long, deep shadows across the minimalist furniture.
He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the grey sofa. It looked alien there, a piece of that other world discarded. He pulled at his tie, loosening the knot with a sharp tug.
Tessa kicked off her heels, the cool hardwood a relief against her soles. She stood in the middle of the room, the blue dress feeling suddenly like a costume. She watched him move through the shadowy space, a restless energy coming off him in waves.
He stopped by the large window, staring out at the blackness of the walled garden. His reflection in the glass was a ghost overlaid on the night.
“Tessa,” he said, not turning around.
“Yeah?”
He was silent for so long she wondered if he’d spoken at all. Then he turned. The lamplight caught the sheen in his eyes, the stark vulnerability he could never fully hide. “Do you regret it?” he asked. “Choosing this?”
The question hung between them, more fragile than any confession by a pool. She crossed the room, the space feeling vast. She stopped in front of him, looking up at his beautiful, tormented face.
She didn’t answer with words. She reached up, her hands framing his face, her thumbs brushing the wetness from beneath his eyes. She stood on her toes and kissed him, a slow, deliberate sealing of a promise.
It was an answer. It was the only one that mattered. He made a sound against her mouth, a raw, grateful thing, and his arms came around her, crushing her to him as if he could absorb her into his very bones.