Chapter 2 Return of the Prodigal Son

I can still hear my father’s voice ringing in my head.

Stop playing games, Chad.

I physically cringe at the name.

Chad.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

It sounds like the kind of guy who wears boat shoes without socks and talks about crypto at parties nobody wanted him at in the first place. Nobody calls me that except my father. To everyone else, I’m CJ, and I intend to keep it that way.

Another fucking summer trapped in Blackwood Ridge.

Another summer pretending I can tolerate my father and his polished little replacement family. That's a generous word family, it's just him and Olivia.

My mother—the actual talented one—was never enough for him. Not with Olivia waiting in the wings with her expensive pearls and old-money status. He cheated on my mother for years before finally divorcing her, building an entirely new life back in his precious hometown while my mom was left picking up the pieces in Brooklyn.

And now I’m supposed to play happy family with them?

Hard pass.

Unfortunately, my mother insisted I come.

“Maybe it’ll help you reconnect with your father,” she says every year.

Reconnect.

That word alone almost made me laugh.

Still, here I am. At least being stuck in this mansion means I can focus on work. I’m heading into my third year studying software engineering, and unlike most of the spoiled trust fund assholes around here, I actually enjoy working. I’ve been developing a virtual reality game for the last year, building environments, coding mechanics, and trying to make something that feels real enough people can disappear into it.

Honestly, I’d rather live in my game than in this house.

I also work remotely for Oasis Interactive as a junior engineer out in New York. The pay isn’t amazing, but it covers rent, coffee, and my increasingly unhealthy energy drink addiction. I’ll be working remotely all summer before heading back east in the fall.

I drop my duffel bag onto the massive bed and unzip it slowly, taking in the room around me.

At least this place actually feels like mine.

The walls are matte black with dark gold molding running along the ceiling. Expensive without being obnoxious. A heavy wooden desk sits in the corner near the windows, perfect for setting up my monitors and laptop. The floors are dark hardwood, the curtains charcoal gray, and the lighting dim enough to not make me want to claw my own eyes out.

Then there’s the rug.

An antique cream-and-gold woven monstrosity sitting beneath the bed like it belongs in a museum instead of my room. The intricate patterns look ancient, probably worth more than my car. Olivia definitely added it. The woman can’t breathe without decorating something.

My favorite part of the room...

That title belongs to the painting hanging above the fireplace.

My mother painted it years ago.

The Brooklyn Bridge in oils—mostly black and white with streaks of metallic gold worked into the skyline. Dark. Moody. Beautiful. It’s the kind of piece that grabs your attention and holds it there. Every brushstroke feels alive.

That’s the thing about my mother’s art. It always feels honest.

Unlike everything else in this house.

“Settling in okay?” my father asks.

I glance toward the doorway where he’s leaning casually against the frame like we’re two normal people having a normal conversation.

He looks exactly the same as always. Polo shirt. Perfect posture. Country club asshole energy radiating off him in waves.

He doesn’t even step fully into the room, probably worried some of the black walls might stain his carefully curated image.

I nod once, saying nothing.

The tension thickens immediately.

Every second he stands there makes my jaw tighten harder. I’ll never forgive him for what he did to my mother. For cheating on her. For lying for years. For building this shiny new life in Blackwood Ridge while pretending he was still a devoted husband back home.

He disgusts me.

“Natalie will be here tomorrow,” he adds carefully, like I’m supposed to give a shit.

Ah yes.

The cheerleader.

The golden daughter.

He’s been bragging about her for weeks now. Ivy League student. Professional cheerleader for the San Francisco Sharks. Double major. Academic awards.

All I heard was fucking airhead.

Though, to be fair, that assumption may have been fueled entirely by irritation.

Earlier, while dragging my stuff upstairs, I accidentally passed by her bedroom.

Pink.

The entire fucking room was pink.

Pink blankets. Pink curtains. Pink throw pillows. Ruffles everywhere like a goddamn princess exploded in there. I almost lost consciousness from secondhand embarrassment.

I know. Very mature of me.

But something about this house gets under my skin in ways I can’t explain. It drags me backward, makes me feel fourteen again—angry, bitter, constantly one bad comment away from snapping.

Still…

I’ve seen a few photos of Natalie around the house.

And I can admit when someone’s attractive.

She’s beautiful.

Annoyingly beautiful.

Long blonde hair, huge green eyes behind dark glasses, legs that apparently half the NFL gets distracted by during games. There’s this soft, innocent look about her in the pictures, but something tells me appearances are bullshit in this family.

“The prodigal son returns for another thrilling summer,” a voice announces dramatically.

My cousin Archie barrels past my father and throws himself across my bed like he owns the place.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” I mutter.

Archie grins at me. “Missed you too, cuz.”

Unlike my father, Archie has never treated me like I’m some inconvenience shoved into the family picture. He’s chaotic as hell, incapable of taking anything seriously, and usually responsible for at least three terrible decisions a week.

Which makes him tolerable.

“Please tell me you’re not planning to hide in this room all summer,” he says.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my father quietly leave, clearly realizing nobody wants him here.

Good.

“Sounds like a perfect summer to me,” I answer with a wicked grin.

Archie groans dramatically. “Come on, man.”

“No.”

“Hear me out first.”

“That’s usually how people end up arrested.”

He ignores me completely. “Brody’s fraternity is throwing their end-of-year party tonight.”

Absolutely fucking not.

“We’re going,” he continues confidently.

I stare at him blankly.

Archie pauses, studying my face carefully, searching for any weakness he can exploit.

“There’ll be girls there,” he says finally, grinning like he just delivered the winning argument.

I almost laugh.

Like girls are enough to drag me to a sweaty frat house full of drunk idiots and warm beer.

I’d rather get food poisoning.

“Hard pass.”

“Okay, okay.” Archie raises his hands dramatically. “Counteroffer.”

I narrow my eyes suspiciously.

“We can skip dinner with the step-monster.”

Now he has my attention.

“We grab burgers at The Smoke Shack,” he continues. “Then we hit the party for a little while. One hour minimum before you disappear back into your cave.”

That actually sounds significantly better than sitting through dinner listening to Olivia talk about charity events and investment portfolios while my father pretends we’re all one big happy family.

I sigh heavily.

Archie immediately grins like he knows he’s won.

“Fine,” I mutter. “What time are we leaving?”