“Perfect.” Daddy Darien smiled, pointing to the various notes in the folder. “You’ll be working from my office while I handle some business in the city. The script for the calls is right here, along with all the information about the gala. I’ll be back around lunch to check on your progress. Then we can have lunch together.”
“I won’t let you down,” he told Daddy Darien, his voice firm with determination. Looking around at the festive kitchen, with its holiday dish towels and the Advent calendar hangingby the refrigerator, Baran felt a sense of belonging he hadn’t experienced in years. This was more than just a job—it was a chance to be part of something meaningful, to help create the same hope for others that he’d found here.
Miss Charlotte, who was hanging another Christmas ornament on the small tree in the corner of the kitchen, turned to them. “And when you boys are done, Baran, you and I are going shopping. You need some proper clothes, dear.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As they finished breakfast, the candy cane wind chimes by the back door tinkled softly, and Baran couldn’t help but smile. He was ready to start this new chapter, surrounded by the spirit of giving that seemed to radiate from every Christmas decoration in Miss Charlotte’s warm, welcoming kitchen.
Daddy Darien drove them to the shelter, then walked Baran to his office. They passed Miss Archer working in her office. She glared at Baran through the open door, her eyes narrowed and filled with icy fury. He hadn’t done one thing to her, but she was pissed at him for getting Hawk banned.
Once they were inside Daddy Darien’s office, he closed the door.
“Call me if you need me.” He cupped Baran’s face in his hand and kissed him, his lips lingering on his for a moment. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yes, I want to work and help.”
When Daddy Darien left the office, Baran sat down at the desk. His fingers traced the edge of the donor list, his chest swelling with purpose. The shelter had been his sanctuary when he needed it most, and now he could help ensure others would have the same opportunity. The Christmas angel centerpiece on the desk seemed to smile at him, its glitter catching the morning light, making him feel like he was exactly where he was meant to be.
Twenty positive calls filled Baran’s day, each one bringing him a sense of hope and optimism. He stood, stretched his stiff muscles, and left the office, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee beckoning him from the lobby.
As he waited for the coffee to drip into his paper cup, Miss Archer snuck up on him.
“Make sure you call every single name on that list. Do you understand?”
Taking his cup, Baran nodded his head and said, “Yes, ma’am.” He took his cup and rushed back to Daddy Darien’s office.
Baran sat down and kept his head down as he dialed the next donor’s number, his stomach twisting with anxiety after his encounter with Miss Archer. This donor planned to attend and donate money. Baran glanced at the next name on the list in front of him—Marat Aslan. His father’s name. Baran’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, willing his voice to remain steady.
Baran’s hands trembled as he dialed the number he still knew by heart, despite his father’s disowning him this week. As the line connected, Baran braced himself, his fingers drumming nervously on the desk. What if his father recognized his voice? What would he say? Baran’s chest ached with the memory of his father’s harsh words when he had just arrived, the way he’d cut Baran down and cast him out. A part of him still longed for Marat’s acceptance and love, that tiny glimmer of hope that one day, his father might see him for who he truly was.
Baran quickly pushed those feelings aside, refocusing on the task at hand. He had a job to do—raising money for Rainbow Haven shelter, a cause close to his and Daddy Darien’s heart.
“Aslan Holdings, Marat Aslan speaking.” The familiar voice, deep and authoritative, made Baran’s throat constrict.
“Good Morning, Mr. Aslan. I’m calling on behalf of Rainbow Haven shelter regarding our upcoming art gala.” Baran kept his voice steady and professional, though his heart hammered against his ribs.
There was a pause, too long to be comfortable. “Your voice…why are you calling me?”
“Sir, as I mentioned, I’m representing the shelter’s fundraising—”
“Baran?” His father’s voice turned to ice. “Is this some kind of trick to get money from me?”
Baran’s fingers gripped the desk’s edge. “No, Father. I’m volunteering here with Darien Moore, the director. The gala is legitimate—”
“So now you use charity work to manipulate me? After bringing shame to our family?” The words cut through him like a winter wind. “After I disowned you, now you’re trying to extort money?”
“That’s not what this is.” Baran’s voice cracked. “The shelter helps people. Darien does amazing work here—”
“Darien? Another one of your…fuck buddies?” The disgust in his father’s voice was unmistakable. “Don’t contact me again. You are no son of mine.”
The line went dead.
Baran stumbled out of the shelter into the harsh icy New York weather, tears blurring his vision. The noise of the city—car horns, construction work, street vendors—seemed to mock his pain. He walked blindly, past the cart whose scent of lamb and rice normally brought comfort but now only reminded him of family dinners long gone.
The spring air held a bitter chill that matched the hollow feeling in his chest. Every breath felt like swallowing glass. He passed storefronts with their reflective windows, catchingglimpses of himself—a ghost of the son his father had once loved, before the truth had torn them apart.
The smell of exhaust fumes mixed with the sweet scent of flowering trees in planters along the sidewalk, that quintessential New York contrast of harsh and soft. A baby wailed in its stroller as he passed, the sound echoing his inner anguish. Groups of tourists cluttered the sidewalk, laughing and taking photos, oblivious to his pain as tears tracked down his cheeks.
