The Marrows liked to pretend they were above everyone else—especially at the dinner table. Every Sunday evening, the family gathered in the grand dining hall like royalty on parade. The chandelier glowed with warm gold, the table was set with polished silverware, and the wine flowed like it was holy. The food was always perfect. The conversation, less so.
Alaric never liked being there. But he showed up—on time, in a pressed shirt, clean-shaven—because Celeste asked him to. And because Harold Marrow would've expected it.
This Sunday, like most, began with sideways glances and empty smiles. Celeste sat beside him, calm and unreadable as always. Her parents sat at the far end of the table—Garron with a glass of wine in hand, Marcella with her usual passive grin. Aunt Edra and Uncle Orren sat across from each other, the unspoken ringleaders of this weekly performance. And then there were the cousins: Corven, Vessa, and Torren, each playing their roles as the future of the Marrow legacy—entitled, proud, and comfortably ignorant.
Dinner started civil.
But it never stayed that way.
"So, Alaric," Corven said, swirling his wine, "still fixing toilets for a living?"
Orren chuckled. "Careful, Corven. That's a skilled trade, you know. Essential work."
Torren grinned like a wolf. "Do you wear the uniform home, or does Celeste prefer you shirtless when you unclog pipes?"
Marcella gave a light, polite laugh—as if what they were saying was harmless fun.
Alaric didn't react. He cut his steak with quiet precision, chewing slowly, swallowing carefully. He didn't look up.
Celeste did.
"That's enough," she said, not loudly, but clearly. Her voice sliced through the noise.
"Oh come on, Celeste," Vessa chimed in, flipping her perfectly styled hair. "We're just joking. If he can't take a little teasing, maybe he's not cut out for this family."
Alaric set down his fork. Finally, he spoke.
"I'm cut out for things most of you wouldn't last a day doing."
Silence followed. Just for a beat.
Garron raised his eyebrows. "Careful, son."
"I'm not your son," Alaric replied, voice calm, even. "And I never asked to be."
That drew a reaction—subtle, but real. Marcella's smile twitched. Orren's grip on his glass tightened. Edra stopped mid-sip.
Celeste turned toward him slowly, eyes studying his face. Not in judgment. In something else.
Then she looked back at the table. "If this is how we treat the people who actually contribute something real, then maybe we should reconsider who belongs here."
No one said a word after that.
Dinner continued, but the energy had shifted. Alaric didn't say another word. He didn't need to. The room was quieter. More careful. Even Torren kept his mouth shut.
After dessert, Alaric excused himself.
As he passed through the hall toward the back garden, Celeste caught up with him, her heels clicking softly behind him.
"Where'd that come from?" she asked.
He paused at the door, holding it open for her. "Some things just need to be said."
"I've never seen you like that."
"I've always been like that," he said. "You just haven't seen it yet."
She looked at him for a long moment, then stepped outside into the cool air. Together, they stood beneath the dark sky, a quiet wind brushing past them.
"You didn't have to defend me," he said after a moment.
"I didn't do it for you," she replied. "I did it because they were wrong."
He looked over at her. For the first time, she wasn't just standing near him—she was standing with him.
And that made all the difference.