Dante
The back roomof On Cloud Nine is all dark wood and leather, illuminated by sconces that cast a gentle glow across the space.
“Oh my god. Your sister is Frankie Hastings?” Em exclaims.
My parents are lounging on a plush leather couch, Mom’s legs draped over Dad’s, each with a crystal whisky tumbler in hand. They glance up when we enter, their expressions softening into affection, the kind Em probably hasn’t seen much of lately.
“Where was this excitement when you met me?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.
“Nobody knows what fencing is,” she responds. “But your sister is literally making waves in the racing world. One thing I actually have in common with Dad is we watch all the races together.” Her voice catches on the wordDad.
“You’re the girl Dante’s coaching?” Frankie asks, walking over. “Ugh, I love you already! How old are you? You wanna drive my—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I warn her with a laugh, already shaking my head. “Can you keep an eye on her? Em’s going to stay at the house with everyone tonight.”
Frankie nods without hesitation and turns back to Em. “Wanna order takeout on his card?” she jokes.
“Okay!” Em responds eagerly. Her shoulders relax, like she’s finally letting herself breathe.
She’ll be fine for the night.
My mind drifts back to the gala, to Reese. I need to talk to her.
“Seen Reese?” I ask, hands shoved in my pockets, shoulders tight with an energy I can’t quite place. The Red Bull exec and his friends are probably wondering where I disappeared to, but I couldn’t care less.
“She was in here earlier,” Mom says, readjusting on the couch with that casual grace she’s always had. “Think she headed to the ballroom. Place is clearing out, though.”
“The kid?”
“She’ll be fine,” I say. “Can she stay with us for a few nights? I need to talk to Reese.”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
I pivot toward the door, then stop. Memories of my own teenage years flood back: the nights I’d climb out my window, the fights, the constant feeling of being misunderstood. “Actually. Got a minute?”
Dad straightens, all attention. “Always, son.”
I settle into the chair across from them. Mom watches me with that penetrating gaze that used to make me want to crawl out of my skin. Now I just let it land. “I need to say something,” I start, throat tight. “About being such a fuckup when I was younger. Never properly apologized for it, I don’t think.”
Mom moves faster than I expect, perching beside me, her hand rubbing along my shoulder. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
“Why would you think you needed to?” Dad leans in, elbows on knees, face etched with concern.
“Picking Em up tonight. Made me think about all the shit I put you through. The reckless fucking choices. The selfishness. Remember that time I took the Rolls for a joyride? Or when I gotcaught fighting behind the gym, bloody knuckles and a broken nose?”
“You were finding your way,” Mom says softly, squeezing my shoulder. The memory of her tears that night at the hospital flashes through my mind.
“You shipped me off to boarding school.” The words come out harder than intended.
Dad exhales slowly. “Son, we were losing you. You didn’t want anything to do with us, with your siblings. Every night, you’d sneak out, run off, push us away. We saw how much potential you had buried underneath all that anger. Boarding school wasn’t about forcing you to change, it was about giving you space to find yourself, to discover who you wanted to be, away from all the pressure of being a Hastings.”
“And look what happened,” Mom adds. Her touch is grounding. “Look who you became.”
“Yeah, suspended athlete. Real success story.”
Mom’s scoff is pure indignation. “Princeton graduate. Olympic gold medalist. Elite athlete. And, more importantly, an incredible son, brother, and man.”
Dad nods. “We’re proud of you, Dante. Not for the medals or the headlines, but for who you are.”
