Chapter 3 - Classical Music And A Custom Italian Suit
The anger that coursed through my veins acted as a temporary, volatile anesthetic, burning hotter than the surgical incisions across my lower back. I didn't care what the orthopedic guidelines said about resting for twenty-four hours post-operation. I didn't care that my legs felt like lead weights or that my lumbar spine was held together by titanium and prayers.
I unhooked the pulse oximeter from my finger, ripped the IV tape off the back of my hand, and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
"Mr. Vance! What are you doing? You cannot stand up yet!" a nurse cried out, rushing toward me with a wheelchair.
"Get me my clothes," I commanded, my voice dropping into a register that made her freeze in her tracks. "And bring me the discharge paperwork right now, or I will walk out of this hospital in a hospital gown."
Within forty-five minutes, I had signed a mountain of liability waivers against medical advice, dressed myself in loose sweatpants with trembling fingers, and hired a private car service to take me home. During the ride, I pulled out my phone and dialed my father's number.
He answered on the third ring.
In the background, soft classical violin music drifted through the speaker, accompanied by the distinct, cheerful clinking of crystal wine glasses and murmurs of polite conversation. He sounded relaxed, unbothered, and entirely detached from reality.
"Hello, Harrison," my father said smoothly, as if I were calling to ask for a recipe. "How did the surgery go? Your mother and I were just discussing—"
"Where are my children?" I interrupted, my voice trembling with controlled fury.
There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by a heavy, annoyed sigh. "Oh, relax, Harrison. You always make a mountain out of a molehill. They're fine."
"They are at Martha’s house because you abandoned them on the porch," I snarled, gripping the door handle of the car so hard my knuckles turned white. "You left a seven-year-old and a five-year-old locked outside alone while I was unconscious under a knife. Where the hell are you?"
Dad sighed again, the sound dripping with condescension, treating me like an irrational teenager rather than an injured adult. "Your brother needed his suit fitted, Harrison. Stop being so dramatic."
I stared blankly out the tinted window of the car as it sped down the highway. For a second, my brain refused to process the words. "What did you just say?"
"It’s a custom Italian cut," Dad explained calmly, as if discussing the weather. "Preston has a massive, high-profile networking gala tonight in downtown Manhattan. He can’t look cheap among those investors. We had to drive him two hours to the luxury tailor in the city and put the deposit down on our credit card before they closed their books for the afternoon. It couldn't wait."
The sheer audacity hit me like a physical blow.
"You left my children locked outside alone... for a suit fitting?"
"They were only gone for a couple of hours!" Dad snapped, his patience evaporating. "Wyatt is old enough to watch his sister. Honestly, Harrison, your generation is so coddled. You expect the world to stop turning just because you had a little back procedure. Stop calling and ruining Preston’s big day."
My spine felt like it was splitting open anew, but the pain was suddenly irrelevant. A cold, absolute clarity settled over my mind. For thirty-two years, I had accepted my role as the expendable, useful utility player while Preston was treated like royalty. I had swallowed every slight, every missed graduation, every broken promise, telling myself that it didn't matter because I had built my own life.
But my children were part of my life now. And my parents had just put them directly in harm's way for a thousand-dollar wool suit.
"Richard," I said, using his first name for the very first time in my life.
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line.
May you like
"Do not ever call my children again," I whispered, my voice ice-cold. "Do not come near my house. Do not text us, do not mail us, and do not ever expect to see Wyatt or Harper for the rest of your lives. We are done."
Before he could sputter a response, I ended the call and blocked his number permanently.
