The Heir Behind Bars

Chapter Three

Nathan stood alone for a moment in the hallway, the murmur of laughter and clinking glasses drifting from the grand dining room behind him. The scent of roasted meat and expensive wine lingered in the air, but he tasted none of it.

His fingers brushed over the edge of the door frame, feeling the fine woodwork beneath his rough skin. Just hours ago, he’d been nothing more than the help here. Now he was supposed to stand at the same table as the family — yet somehow feel smaller than ever.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The long oak table gleamed under the chandelier’s warm light, every polished surface reflecting the gold cutlery and crystal glasses. They all turned to look when he entered — the hush said more than any words could.

At the head sat Mr. Hayes, his face a cold marble mask. Beside him, Cassandra’s bracelet glimmered like a snake coiled around her wrist. She looked up at Nathan with a smile so sweet it soured the air.

“Nathan,” she purred, tapping an empty seat beside her. “Come. Sit. Join your family.”

He moved stiffly, lowering himself onto the chair. The leather felt too soft beneath him, like he might sink through it and disappear. A waiter passed behind him, topping off the wine glasses. Nathan watched the dark liquid swirl — deep red, almost black.

Dinner resumed with the soft clatter of forks and idle murmurs about contracts and golf and someone’s upcoming wedding. Nathan didn’t touch his food. He kept his head down, cutting meat he wouldn’t taste, nodding when silence demanded a polite reaction.

Every so often, Cassandra’s elbow brushed his. Each time she leaned closer, her perfume flooded his nose— roses, sharp and false.

“Tell us, Nathan,” Cassandra said suddenly, her voice slicing through the quiet hum. “How does it feel to be back home? After everything.”

He felt the weight of every eye at the table. He forced his jaw to move. “It feels… good, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She laughed, a bright, tinkling sound. “Darling, you’re family now. No need for that.”

She lifted her glass and studied him over the rim. Then, as if on impulse, she tilted it, the base brushing his arm. The wine sloshed — just enough to slip over the edge and splash onto his shirt.

A small gasp rippled around the table. Nathan looked down — the stain spread across the crisp white fabric.

“Oh, dear,” Cassandra said lightly, dabbing her napkin at her mouth but not at him. “Clumsy me. Here — let’s not waste good wine, hmm?”

Before he could react, she reached over and took his clean glass. She swapped it with the stained one still dripping in his hand. Her fingers grazed his knuckles, cold, deliberate.

“To second chances,” she said, lifting the rim to tap it gently against his. “Drink.”

He hesitated, tasting the weight of every watching eye. The stain was still wet against his skin, seeping chill into his chest. Cassandra’s smile never slipped. It only deepened, daring him to refuse.

Nathan lifted the glass. He drank. The wine was sour — he felt the warmth slide down, coating something in him that refused to be washed away.

Cassandra’s eyes sparkled. She leaned close enough for only him to hear. “Good boy.”

A brittle silence hovered over the table. Mr. Hayes cleared his throat — not an apology, not quite approval either. Just a reminder of who owned the silence here.

“You spill it, you wipe it,” Mr. Hayes said flatly, eyes flicking to Cassandra with a quiet, unspoken warning. His tone turned to Nathan without a shred of warmth. “Mind your shirt. We don’t tolerate stains at this table.”

Cassandra laughed softly, wiping her lipstick from her glass. “Well, we can’t send him back in rags, can we?”

Nathan set the empty glass down with care. His fingers trembled only once, then stilled. He reached for his napkin, pressing it against the stain. It didn’t help. The blotch was there to stay — a mark of who he really was to them.

Conversation resumed around him. Jokes, deals. Empty warmth traded across crystal and porcelain. Nathan sat among them, silent, his mind scraping at the walls they’d built around him.

When dessert was served, Cassandra’s bracelet brushed his wrist again, cold and deliberately. He didn’t flinch. He only watched the crystal water glass by his plate, catching the glint of the chandelier.

Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his thumb against the cracked rim. He pushed until he felt the skin break, a small sting, nothing more. A bead of blood welled, smearing red across the faint fracture.

He wiped it away with his napkin, folding the cloth over the stain so no one would see. In his mind, he made a promise.

They could spill their wine on him tonight. Make him swallow it down like cheap mercy.

Tomorrow, he’d make them drink it back, drop by drop.