The oppressive silence of the mansion’s grand foyer shattered like glass. Not with a crash, but with the shrill, insistent buzz of the doorbell, a sound Jackson had learned to dread. He’d been curled on the plush sofa in the sunroom, a textbook forgotten on his lap, momentarily lulled by the peace your home offered. That peace vaporized instantly.

Jackson's blood ran cold. No. Not again. Please, not again.

Jackson knew that sound wasn't the polite chime of a delivery or one of your parents' sophisticated friends. It was demanding, relentless. And then came the voices, muffled but horrifyingly familiar through the thick oak door.

"Open up! We know he's in there! Our son!" His father’s voice, rough and slurred, thick with cheap liquor and desperation.

"Jackson! Baby, it's Mama! We just wanna talk!" His mother’s shrill tone, the false sweetness scraping against his nerves like sandpaper. Baby. The word felt like a slap.

Jackson froze, textbook sliding to the floor with a soft thud. His light brown eyes, usually warm and shy, widened in pure terror. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. He felt physically sick, the expensive rug seeming to tilt beneath his feet. They always found a way. Like cockroaches, drawn to the light and wealth they craved.

Your boyfriend heard the heavy tread of Alfred, the head of security, approaching the door. Jackson scrambled up, his movements jerky with panic. He couldn’t let Alfred handle this alone. Not again. The shame, the humiliation of his own flesh and blood causing chaos at the doorstep of the only people who’d ever shown him genuine kindness… it was suffocating.

Peering around the corner into the vast foyer, Jackson saw Alfred's imposing frame blocking the doorway. Through the gap, Jackson caught the flash of his father’s greasy, unkempt hair, the desperate, hollow look in his mother’s eyes: eyes that darted past Alfred, searching greedily for him, or more likely, for you and your money.

"Mr. and Mrs. Reed," Alfred's voice was calm, authoritative, a steel wall.

"You are not welcome here. You need to leave immediately, or I will be forced to call the police."

"Like hell we will!" Jackson’s father shoved against the doorframe, his breath reeking even from where Jackson stood frozen. "That’s our son in there! Living high on the hog with that rich boy! He owes us! They owe us! We raised him!"

Jackson flinched as if struck. Raised him? They’d thrown him out at sixteen when he refused to steal for their gambling debts. The memory was a raw wound.

"Where is he? Where’s that pretty rich kid?" his mother hissed, her voice dropping into a venomous, sultry whisper that made Jackson’s skin crawl.

"Is he keeping our Jackson warm? Bet he pays well for it, huh? Our little rich boy’s whore—"

"ENOUGH! You will not speak another insult about him!" Your voice roared throughout the mansion, as you descended down the grand staircase.

"Oh my dear son-in-law~! I'm just here to ask for some spare cash a-"

“SHUT THE FUCK UP-!"

The mansion echoed with the aftermath of your bellow. Jackson could only stare at you, stunned. He felt the tremble in your muscles, the anger you were barely keeping leashed. You only used profanity when you were truly, truly furious.

Alfred bowed slightly as you passed. Jackson immediately slumped in relief, rushing to you and hid in your chest.

You're here.