Chapter 15

He opened his mouth to say, "Dad, why?" but his words were cut off as his father slapped him across the face.

He stumbled back, baffled by what just happened. His father glared at him. "You and your mother are going to ruin my life, my reputation—everything I've built from the ground up.

Your mother is just determined to ruin me.

Do you know how many times I've called her? Nothing.

How many times have I told you—don't be involved with her, don't tell her your next moves. Tell her nothing. But you never listen. Never listen."

Luke stared into his father's eyes. He could see the anger and sadness in them. "You let her ruin everything. You've fucked up your basketball career. It's all going to shit. Why, Lucas?"

Luke let out a struggled breath. "I just thought—"

His father cut him off. "You just thought nothing! Since you want to keep her involved in your life, then you don't need me."

Luke stepped forward, not liking how this conversation was going. He reached out his hand to touch his dad, but his father retreated from his touch.

"You have two hours to get out of my house." His father turned his back on him and walked away.

Luke chased after him, shouting, "Dad! Dad, please! I made a mistake!" But before he could even get to him, security stepped in.

He heard his father's last words: "Two hours, Lucas."

Luke fell onto his knees, a devastated scream echoing through the house, his situation sinking in. His future was uncertain. He was abandoned by his own father.

All these thoughts tore through his mind as tears continued to stream down his face. Then, suddenly, he let out a broken laugh. This all felt like a bad joke. A nightmare he just wanted to wake up from.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting there until one of the security guards came up to him. "Kid, you only have an hour left."

Luke got up but tumbled, his legs having fallen asleep. He couldn't even stand properly.

After struggling and finally getting to his feet, he dragged himself upstairs, grabbing his suitcase. He packed as many clothes as he could fit, throwing in every necessity and toiletry he could.

Another knock on the door. "Your time is up. It's time to go."

He grabbed everything he had packed and walked down the stairs, his eyes lingering on all the pictures of him and his father along the way.

He stepped outside, walking down the driveway. At the gates, he turned back for one last glance at the house he had lived in all his life.

Fresh tears streamed down his face as the gates closed behind him, signaling his banishment.

Not knowing where else to go, he called a ride. The taxi drive felt suffocating. It was like he couldn't breathe.

When it was finally over, he got out, grabbing all his belongings. He pressed the intercom.

A voice came through. "Luke, what are you doing here?"

The gates opened. Luke dragged his belongings up the long driveway to the front door, already open, waiting for him. Ashton stood there, staring at Luke and his bags.

"What happened?"

Luke kept his head down. "I got kicked out."

Ashton pulled him into a hug. "You're welcome anytime." 

At the same time....

Ashton's hands are clenched so tightly around his phone that his knuckles turn white. He's read every single comment, every accusation, every disgusting assumption about him, and it's like watching his identity be ripped apart in real-time. His entire reputation—everything he's built—is crumbling, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

He storms out of Rebecca's house without a word, his breath shallow, his vision blurring at the edges. Milo calls after him, but Ashton doesn't stop. He can't. If he stays, he'll suffocate under the weight of it all.

The cold air bites at his skin as he steps outside, but he barely feels it. His body moves on autopilot, his legs carrying him forward as his mind spirals out of control.

His phone is still buzzing with notifications, each one another dagger to the chest. People who once stayed quiet about him, people who used to be indifferent, are suddenly acting like they've always hated him. They never needed proof—just the opportunity to turn against him.

He walks faster. The streets are quiet, but his mind is deafening. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, his breaths ragged. His fists clench at his sides, nails digging into his palms hard enough to hurt.

He doesn't even realize he's muttering under his breath until his voice cracks. "Why now? We were making progress. We just found out the truth. I didn't do it—" but the satisfaction dies in his throat.

Because none of it matters.

The truth isn't enough. It never was.

Every step home feels heavier, the weight of the betrayal, the shame, the sheer fury pressing down on him until his legs nearly give out. His house looms in the distance, but it doesn't feel like home. Nothing does. Not anymore.

By the time he reaches the front door, his hands are shaking. He forces the key into the lock, jamming it harder than necessary, before shoving the door open. The moment he steps inside, it's like everything holding him together snaps.

His bag drops to the floor with a thud. His breaths come fast and uneven, chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

The house is silent—his parents aren't home yet. Good.

With a sudden, raw fury, he grabs the nearest thing—a framed photo of him and Parker—and hurls it across the room. The glass shatters on impact, pieces skidding across the hardwood floor. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

Parker is in the hospital. Parker, who always had his back. Parker, who didn't deserve any of this. Ashton was supposed to protect him.

And yet, here they are—Parker fighting to recover while Ashton's name gets dragged through the dirt.

His breath catches, and the ache in his chest turns unbearable. The guilt is suffocating.

If Parker were here, he'd tell Ashton to take a breath, to think things through, to not let his emotions win. But Parker isn't here.

And Ashton feels like he's falling apart.

His knees buckle, and he sinks onto the floor, surrounded by shattered glass and overturned furniture. His hands clutch at his hair, his body trembling from the force of everything crashing down on him all at once.

No one believes him. No one cares.

A bitter laugh bubbles up from his throat, sharp and hollow. He wipes at his face roughly, forcing himself to stand. His steps are unsteady as he stumbles into the kitchen.

The wine cooler hums softly in the background, and his hands move on instinct, yanking the door open and grabbing the first bottle he sees.

He doesn't even hesitate as he twists off the cap, about to neck it straight from the bottle when a voice creeps into his mind.

Are you gonna get drunk again?

The bottle halts just inches from his lips. His fingers tighten around the neck of it.

I wonder what's gonna happen this time.

His grip trembles, and for a split second, he's back there—back to the last time he lost control, back to the weight of regret that never quite left.

His breath shudders as he places the bottle down on the counter, his body still tense. His eyes flicker to the side, landing on the set of knives resting in their wooden block.

A sharp inhale.

His fingers twitch.

And then—the doorbell rings.

The sharp sound jolts him like a slap, snapping him out of his thoughts. His pulse pounds in his ears as he stares toward the front of the house, his body still shaking.

Slowly, unsteadily, he pushes himself to his feet, stepping over the wreckage of his own making. His hand hesitates on the doorknob before he yanks it open.

Luke stands there, bags in hand, looking like he's been completely wrecked. His eyes are red, his expression hollow, and Ashton knows—he's not the only one whose world has just fallen apart.

"What happened?" Ashton asks, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

Luke keeps his head down. "I got kicked out."

Ashton stares at him for a second, his throat tightening. Then—without thinking—he pulls him into a hug.

"You're welcome anytime."