Chapter 8: The House of Veerayut

The fluorescent lights of the office building hummed their familiar tune as Rithvik Veerayut pressed his palm against the cool glass wall, watching Bangkok's evening chaos unfold thirty floors below. Traffic snaked through the streets like glowing arteries, and the air conditioning behind him created a stark contrast to the humid heat he could almost feel radiating from the city outside. His reflection stared back—tired eyes, loosened tie, shirt sleeves rolled up from another sixteen-hour day.

The stack of quarterly reports on his mahogany desk seemed to mock him, their pristine white pages catching the amber glow of his desk lamp. He'd planned to work through them tonight, same as every other night for the past eighteen months. His condo was just a place to shower and change clothes anyway.

But something felt different today. Maybe it was the way his secretary had mentioned it was her daughter's birthday, or how the janitor had smiled and asked about his family. When was the last time he'd eaten his mother's cooking? When had he last heard Thanwa's ridiculous jokes or Pakorn's competitive banter?

Rithvik's fingers found his car keys in his jacket pocket. The metal felt foreign against his palm—when had he last driven himself home instead of working until the building security had to escort him out?

For the first time in what felt like forever, the reports could wait.

---

## THE VEERAYUT MANSION

The estate sat like a crown jewel in Thonglor district, where old money whispered through manicured gardens and marble fountains. The Veerayut mansion rose from behind wrought-iron gates, its traditional Thai architecture married seamlessly with modern luxury. Golden naga serpents curved along the roofline, their scales catching the last rays of sunlight, while white marble pillars stood sentinel beneath hand-carved teak eaves.

The driveway curved through a garden where frangipani trees released their sweet evening fragrance, and koi swam lazily in ponds that reflected the sky like liquid mirrors. Stone lanterns began their nightly glow, casting dancing shadows across the perfectly trimmed hedges.

When Rithvik's black Mercedes pulled through the gates, old Somchai nearly dropped the watering can he'd been using on the orchids. The head butler's weathered hands trembled slightly as he set it down and straightened his uniform.

"Nai Rithvik ka?" he whispered to Malee, the head gardener, who was deadheading roses nearby.

Malee looked up, her sun-spotted hands pausing mid-snip. "The young master? But it's barely seven o'clock..."

"Maybe the office building caught fire," Somchai muttered, then immediately felt guilty. The boy worked too hard—they all knew it. But seeing him arrive before darkness fell felt like witnessing a miracle.

Inside the mansion, the usual evening rhythm shifted. Maids paused their dusting, and the cook peeked out from the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand.

---

## THE VEERAYUT FAMILY

**Vichai Veerayut** moved through life like a man accustomed to command. At fifty-eight, his presence filled rooms before he even spoke. Silver threads wove through his black hair, and his hands—scarred from his early days working construction before building his empire—still carried calluses that no amount of success could erase. He'd taught himself English from library books, learned Japanese from business partners, and built the Veerayut Group from a single concrete contract into Thailand's third-largest construction conglomerate.

But for all his business acumen, emotions remained foreign territory. He showed love through opportunities, expressed pride through increased responsibilities, and demonstrated care by ensuring his sons wanted for nothing. The language of feelings had been beaten out of him by poverty long before his children were born.

**Sasiprapa Veerayut** was grace personified. Once Thailand's most celebrated classical dancer, she'd given up her career at twenty-five to marry Vichai and raise their children. Now fifty-three, she moved with the same fluid elegance that had once captivated audiences at the National Theatre. Her hair was pulled back in a simple chignon, revealing silver earrings that caught the light when she turned her head. She was the emotional anchor of the family—the translator between her husband's ambitions and her sons' hearts.

**Thanwa Veerayut**, twenty-eight and blessed with their mother's artistic soul, had inherited Sasiprapa's expressive eyes and quick smile. His hair curled rebelliously despite expensive styling products, and his laugh could fill entire rooms. Working as a media consultant for Thailand's biggest entertainment companies, he was the bridge between their traditional family values and Bangkok's modern social scene. His phone buzzed constantly with invitations to gallery openings, film premieres, and charity galas.

**Pakorn Veerayut** was twenty-five and carried himself with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted his place in the world. Broader than his brothers, with their father's sharp jawline and determined gait, he served as the family company's head of strategic planning. His desk was perpetually organized, his calendar color-coded, and his opinions delivered with the certainty of someone who'd spent his childhood trying to keep up with two older brothers. Beneath his occasionally bossy exterior lay fierce loyalty and protective instincts that surprised even him sometimes.

---

The heavy teak door echoed through the foyer as Rithvik stepped inside. The familiar scent hit him immediately—jasmine incense from his mother's morning prayers, the faint trace of lemongrass from the kitchen, and furniture polish on the antique cabinets that had belonged to his grandmother.

Thanwa appeared at the top of the curved staircase like a theatrical revelation, one hand dramatically pressed to his chest, the other clutching the marble railing.

"Someone call the newspapers! Alert the media!" He descended with exaggerated elegance. "The ice prince has returned to his castle!"

Rithvik couldn't suppress the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "I can always freeze your credit cards if you prefer."

"Brother!" Thanwa rushed down the remaining steps, nearly tripping over his own feet. "My beloved, wonderful, generous brother! I was just telling everyone how much I missed you!"

"No, you weren't," Pakorn's voice carried from the living room doorway. He emerged holding a glass of fresh coconut water, his hair still damp from what was probably his post-gym shower. "You were complaining that he never comes home anymore and wondering if we should check his condo to make sure he hasn't turned into a robot."

"Details," Thanwa waved dismissively, then threw his arms around Rithvik's shoulders. "The important thing is he's here! And he's still warm! Mostly."

Despite himself, Rithvik found his rigid posture softening. He'd forgotten how easily his brothers could crack through his armor. "You're both ridiculous."

"Ridiculously charming," Thanwa corrected.

"Ridiculously loud," Pakorn added, but his grin betrayed his affection.

---

## DINNER TIME

The dining room glowed under the soft light of the crystal chandelier—a wedding gift from Vichai's first major client twenty-eight years ago. The long table, carved from a single piece of golden teak, was set with their mother's finest china. Blue and white porcelain that had survived three generations and countless family celebrations.

Sasiprapa had outdone herself. Plate after plate emerged from the kitchen: tom yum goong with prawns so fresh they'd been swimming that morning, pad kra pao with basil that perfumed the entire room, green curry rich enough to make guests weep with joy, and mango sticky rice that had been Rithvik's favorite since childhood.

She moved between her men like a conductor orchestrating a symphony, placing an extra helping of chicken on Rithvik's plate, refilling Thanwa's water glass before he could ask, ensuring Pakorn had enough rice. This was her stage now—not the National Theatre, but the family dinner table where she performed the most important role of her life.

"It's been too long since we've all been together," she said, settling into her chair with graceful satisfaction. "The house feels empty when one of you is missing."

Thanwa reached for the chili oil, nearly knocking over his water glass in the process. "I forgot how weird it is eating with P'Rithvik watching. It's like dining with a beautiful statue that judges your table manners."

"At least statues don't steal food off your plate," Pakorn shot back, protectively covering his curry.

"I was taste-testing!"

"You ate half my rice!"

Rithvik watched this familiar dance, feeling tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying slowly leave his shoulders. "Some things never change."

"And some things should never change," Sasiprapa said softly, catching his eye with a meaningful look.

Vichai had been unusually quiet, pushing food around his plate while observing his eldest son. Finally, he cleared his throat—a sound that always commanded attention in business meetings and family dinners alike.

"Rithvik." His voice carried the weight of paternal authority. "I had lunch today with Chatchai Prasertchai. We've known each other since university, and his family has always been close to ours."

Rithvik's chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. Something cold unfurled in his stomach.

"His daughter returned from London last month. PhD in international business, speaks four languages, comes from good family. Beautiful girl, well-educated. Her name is Kanlaya."

The name hit like a physical blow. The chopsticks fell from Rithvik's nerveless fingers, clattering against his plate. The sound seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

Every face at the table turned toward him. His mother's eyes widened with understanding and horror. Thanwa's mouth fell open. Pakorn straightened in his chair, instantly alert to danger.

Kanlaya.

The name that had once been whispered against his ear in darkened bedrooms. The name he'd practiced writing with his surname during boring university lectures. The name that had disappeared from his life without explanation, without goodbye, without closure.

Rithvik's chair scraped violently against the marble floor as he stood. His vision narrowed to tunnels, his breathing shallow and sharp. The beautiful porcelain plate—his grandmother's china, his mother's pride—became a missile in his hands.

It shattered against the far wall with explosive finality. Fragments scattered across the floor like his composure, like his carefully constructed emotional walls.

"Don't." His voice was barely recognizable—low, dangerous, trembling with barely contained fury and pain. "Don't you dare mention marriage to me again. Not her. Not anyone. Not ever."

He turned and strode from the room, his footsteps echoing through the corridor like gunshots.

"Rithvik!" Sasiprapa's voice cracked as she called after him, but he was already gone, leaving only the scent of jasmine incense and the glittering remains of broken porcelain.

---

## BROTHERS' SUPPORT

The dining room fell into stunned silence. Servants hovering in doorways quickly disappeared, sensing the family needed privacy for whatever was about to unfold.

Thanwa stared at the wall where his brother's pain had exploded into ceramic shards. His usual cheerful demeanor had evaporated completely. "Dad..." His voice was quiet, disappointed. "How could you not know?"

Pakorn's hands were clenched into fists on the table. "That was her name. His university girlfriend. The one who destroyed him." Each word was carefully controlled, but underneath lay volcanic anger on his brother's behalf.

Vichai looked between his sons, confusion and dawning horror warring on his face. "I... what do you mean 'her name'?"

"Kanlaya Mitchai," Thanwa said softly. "He dated her for four years. Brought her home for every holiday, every birthday, every family dinner. She sat in the chair you're sitting in now, Dad. She helped Mom in the kitchen. She played cards with us during Songkran."

"He was going to propose," Pakorn added, his voice thick. "Had the ring and everything. Then one day, she just... vanished. Changed her phone number, moved apartments, blocked him on everything. No explanation, no goodbye. Nothing."

Sasiprapa's hand covered her mouth, tears beginning to well. "Oh, my poor boy..."

"He tried to find her for months," Thanwa continued. "Lost weight, couldn't sleep, couldn't concentrate on his thesis. We were terrified he wouldn't graduate. And when he finally started healing, you just..." He gestured helplessly at the broken china.

Vichai looked stricken. "I had no idea. Chatchai said his daughter's name was Kanlaya, and I thought... I thought it would be good for Rithvik to meet someone suitable..."

"There are a thousand Kanlayas in Bangkok," Pakorn said sharply. "But for him, there was only ever one. And she's the reason he works eighteen-hour days, the reason he hasn't brought anyone home in five years, the reason he flinches whenever we mention relationships."

Both younger brothers stood simultaneously, their chairs scraping in unison—a sound that would have been comedic under different circumstances.

"We need to check on him," Thanwa said.

"Before he does something stupid," Pakorn agreed.

They moved toward the corridor together, leaving their parents alone with the wreckage of dinner and the weight of unintended wounds.

---

## POST-DINNER SILENCE

The mansion's evening sounds felt different now—heavier, more fragile. The fountain in the courtyard continued its gentle burbling, and somewhere a gecko called into the night, but the harmony had been shattered along with the porcelain plate.

Sasiprapa stood slowly, her dancer's grace intact despite the emotional turmoil. She walked to the broken china, kneeling carefully to pick up the larger pieces. Her grandmother's pattern—blue flowers against white ceramic—now lay scattered like broken dreams.

Vichai remained at the head of the table, his powerful frame suddenly looking older, more fragile. His calloused hands trembled slightly as he reached for his water glass.

"I should have known," Sasiprapa said quietly, not looking at her husband. "The way he changed after she left... I should have realized what her name meant to him."

"Sasi..." Vichai's voice was rough with regret.

"Do you remember how happy he was then?" She continued gathering fragments, her movements careful and methodical. "He used to laugh at Thanwa's jokes instead of just smiling politely. He'd steal bites from Pakorn's plate just to tease him. He'd call me every day from university just to tell me about his classes, his friends, his girlfriend who made him smile so wide his face hurt."

A piece of porcelain cut her finger, and she watched the small drop of blood well up with detached interest. "After she left, it was like watching him build walls around his heart, brick by brick, day by day. Until our warm, loving son became a stranger who lived in the same house."

Vichai rose heavily from his chair and moved to kneel beside his wife. His business suits were expensive, tailored to perfection, but he didn't hesitate to get them dirty as he helped collect the broken pieces.

"I thought I was helping," he said quietly. "I thought... if he met someone appropriate, someone from a good family, he could move on. Build a life."

"Love isn't a business merger, Vichai." Sasiprapa's voice was gentle but firm. "You can't negotiate someone into healing. You can't schedule grief into submission."

They worked in silence for several minutes, two people who'd built a life together learning, perhaps too late, that their eldest son's heart operated by different rules than their business empire.

"What do I do now?" Vichai asked. "How do I fix this?"

Sasiprapa looked at her husband—this strong, successful man who could command boardrooms and move millions of baht with a phone call, but who was lost when it came to the simple, complicated matter of his son's wounded heart.

"You give him time," she said softly. "You let him know you understand your mistake. And you pray that someday, when he's ready, he'll trust us enough to let us help him heal instead of hurt."

Outside, Bangkok's night sounds continued—traffic, voices, the eternal rhythm of a city that never truly slept. But inside the Veerayut mansion, three generations of love, pain, and misunderstanding settled into the silence like dust, waiting for morning to reveal what could be rebuilt from the pieces.