Malcolm was already too far gone in his frustration. "Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be the mayor's son? To have my life dictated by a bunch of old people who sit in a damn room and pretend they know what's best for me?" His voice rose a bit, raw and bitter, his agitation palpable.
I tensed, my gaze flickering around the café. A few patrons had turned at his outburst, their expressions wavering between curiosity and discomfort. The gentle murmur of conversation had faded into an uneasy hush.
Leaning in, I hissed, "Will you shut up? Do you want to get yourself—and me—in trouble?" My heart pounded in my chest, fear mingling with irritation.
Malcolm's response was immediate and reckless. His palm slammed against the table, rattling the porcelain cup and making me flinch. "I don't care," he snapped, his eyes blazing with defiance.
A few people jumped. The woman at the table next to us nearly spilled her drink, her startled eyes flicking toward us. A group of customers near the counter paused mid-laugh, exchanging wary glances.
But no one said a word.
Malcolm turned his glare on them, his gray-blue eyes sharp as a blade, daring anyone to challenge him.
One by one, they looked away, their interest quickly fading. No one wanted to get on the mayor's son's bad side.
I let out a slow breath, forcing my posture to stay relaxed even as my pulse picked up speed. The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating.
"I am suffocating in that house, under his rules." Malcolm continued, lowering his voice now but no less intense. "It's always about duty, always about the council's expectations. Do you know what it's like to wake up every day and realize your life isn't even yours? To realize you can't even choose your own spouse?" His words were a bitter confession, the pain behind them unmistakable.
My fingers curled into fists under the table, nails digging into my palms. Yes, I knew. But I wasn't about to tell Malcolm that.
Instead, I met his gaze head-on, forcing my voice to stay even. "If you don't stop, I will leave." I kept my tone cold, detached, ignoring the sharp sting in my chest. "Mr. Hayes, I don't know why you think you can dump this on me, but I'm not your—" I hesitated, the word sticking to my tongue before I forced it out. "Friend anymore."
The moment the words left my mouth, I saw the flicker in Malcolm's expression—there and gone in an instant, but I caught it.
Hurt.
But he covered it up just as quickly, letting out a scoff. "How many times do I have to apologize for something that happened ten years ago?"
My jaw clenched, teeth grinding as I fought to keep my emotions in check. My shoulders were stiff, every muscle coiled tight, ready to snap.
I wasn't ready for this conversation. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But my mind didn't care. It dragged me back anyway. The café around us blurred, the voices and clinking dishes fading into the background as the past came rushing in—uninvited, unstoppable.
Ten Years Ago. The orphanage yard was a battlefield.
Cracked pavement, broken toys, the faint stench of something rotting near the fence no one bothered to fix. The air was filled with laughter, shouting, and the occasional sound of someone crying. A cacophony of childhood chaos.
And then there was me—running.
Heart pounding, lungs burning. I could hear him behind me, gaining ground with each step.
Patrick.
Bigger, older, meaner. The kind of kid who enjoyed making others feel small, relishing every moment of their misery.
I'd made the mistake of mouthing off earlier, thinking I could get away with it. I thought I could outrun my problems, but I was wrong.
"You think you're so smart, huh?" Patrick sneered behind me. "Think you can mouth off and walk away?"
I turned a corner too fast, my foot catching on loose gravel. The ground rushed up to meet me, knocking the air from my lungs. Pain exploded in my chest as I hit the pavement hard. Before I could scramble up, Patrick was there, grabbing a fistful of my shirt, his grip ironclad.
"Where do you think you're going?" His breath was hot against my ear, his grip tightening painfully. "Maybe I should teach you a lesson—"
"Hey!"
The voice was sharp, cutting through the chaos like a knife.
Patrick froze.
So did I.
Footsteps approached, then a shadow loomed over us.
I looked up, dazed, to find him.
Malcolm Hayes.
Fifteen years old, dressed in clean, expensive clothes that had no place in a rundown orphanage. I'd seen him before, always walking two steps behind his father during their charity visits—days where the mayor would parade around, shaking hands, pretending to care.
They'd come to drop off supplies, books, food that never seemed to last more than a few days.
But Malcolm had never spoken to me. Never noticed me. Until now.
His gaze locked onto Patrick, cold and unyielding. "Let him go."
Patrick hesitated, his fingers twitching against my shirt. "Or what?"
Malcolm didn't flinch. "Or I'll make sure my father hears about how you spend your time bullying kids half your size."
That did it. Patrick's grip loosened, his bravado cracking. He spat at the ground before shoving me away and stalking off, muttering curses under his breath.
I stayed where I was, stunned, my palms scraped raw from the pavement, the sting a reminder of my vulnerability.
Then Malcolm crouched in front of me, brushing the dust off my shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. His touch was gentle, almost comforting. "You okay?" he asked, his voice softer now, filled with genuine concern.
I could only stare.
No one had ever helped me before. No one had ever cared.
He must have mistaken my silence for embarrassment because he smirked. "Don't let idiots like him push you around."
That was the day everything changed.
Malcolm started visiting more often.
At first, I thought it was just part of his father's charity work, but then I noticed—he wasn't talking to the adults. He wasn't helping his father shake hands and smile for the cameras.
He was looking for me.
Bringing me snacks. Sitting with me on the orphanage steps, talking about things I didn't understand—politics, the council, expectations that felt so foreign to my own struggles. His presence became a constant, something I found myself relying on.
I started looking forward to those visits, the anticipation of our conversations becoming the highlight of my days.
And then—then everything fell apart.
I forced myself back to reality, pushing the memories away. The café came back into focus, the sounds, the smells, the uneasy glances from the other patrons.
I wasn't that kid anymore. And Malcolm wasn't the boy who used to sit beside me on the orphanage steps.
I met his gaze, forcing my voice to stay cold. "I'm not having this conversation with you, Mr. Hayes," I said quietly, each word deliberate and measured.
His jaw clenched, the muscles working under his skin. I could tell he wanted to argue, to force the conversation anyway, but for once, he didn't push.
Instead, he just exhaled, the fight draining out of him as he looked away. "Right," he muttered.