Chapter 7 Suffocating Grip

Liam’s POV continuation

He ruffled his hair with both hands, pacing the floor like a caged animal, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run miles. Minutes ticked by, each one making the anger burn hotter, but with nowhere to release it. He stopped abruptly, his breathing ragged, his fists trembling at his sides. Finally, he pulled a plain shirt and shorts with trembling hands.

Without sparing another glance at the room that now felt suffocating, Liam grabbed his car keys and stormed out. His footsteps echoed harshly down the quiet hallway, sounding louder than usual, like the house itself was holding its breath. He pushed into the garage, yanked the car door open, and started the engine with a force that betrayed his fury.

He didn’t even realize his fingers were trembling as he picked up his phone while steering. He dialed Barley, his best friend, the only person who knew him well enough to catch him when he was about to break.

“Hey man,” Barley’s voice came through the receiver, warm and familiar.

“You at the bar?” Liam asked, his voice tight.

“Yes. You coming?”

“Yeah. On my way already,” Liam muttered before cutting the call short.

The drive was a blur. Red lights, honking cars, the world around him, it all faded until only his thoughts roared in his head. In no time, he pulled into the lot beside Barley’s bar, a place that had always been their escape. He pushed the door open and walked straight inside, the scent of alcohol and faint laughter doing little to ease his mood.

Barley stood behind the counter, flashing that usual wide grin, one that could light up a dark room. But the smile faltered as soon as he saw Liam’s face. His brows knitted in concern, and he leaned forward.

“Hey man, what’s wrong? You okay?”

“Nah. I’m not,” Liam exhaled heavily, dragging a chair close and slumping into it.

“Your mom…again?” Barley asked carefully.

“Yep,” Liam answered too quickly, like the word itself was poison.

Barley shook his head slowly. “Look, if you don’t let her know now that you’re a fully grown man, then you’re never gonna escape her grip. What’s it this time?”

Liam’s throat tightened. “She says I should end whatever I have going on with Maureen,” he whispered, his voice laced with defeat.

Barley’s jaw dropped. “What? You can’t do that. Didn’t we hire her so you could finally start cutting yourself off from your mother’s chokehold?” His words came out in a rush before pausing. Then, calmer, he said, “You’ve got to stand your ground, man.” He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured into the glass in front of Liam. “Here. Drink.”

Liam picked it up, his gaze sinking into the golden-brown liquid as if it held some answer he couldn’t find elsewhere. He tilted it back and let it burn down his throat in one go.

“She’s driving me insane,” Liam confessed, his hand dragging down his face. “Everything revolves around her. I’m her son, her biological son for crying out loud….and yet I don’t even get a say in my own life.”

“I get it,” Barley said firmly. “But listen to me…..don’t you dare let go of that girl. Don’t. You’ve got to let your mom know this is your life, not hers.”

Liam chuckled bitterly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you know the funniest thing? Angela is back. And now Mom wants me to call her. Or worse, invite her over for dinner.”

Barley blinked, then groaned. “Wow. She still wants you to date that…that witch?”

Liam shot him a glare, but Barley only raised his hands in mock surrender.

“What? She is a witch. Have you forgotten the kind of person she is?” Barley said, laughing, his shoulders shaking.

The Next Day

The sunlight sneaked through his curtains, falling across his face. Liam stirred awake, every muscle aching, his head pounding. The weight of last night’s drinks clung to him, and the exhaustion from the endless cycle of frustration made it worse. He lay there staring at the ceiling, his thoughts a tangled mess, chasing after things invisible yet suffocatingly real.

A sharp ding jolted him from the haze. He turned his head to the nightstand and picked up his phone. One new message, from his mother.

How are you, son? Have you spoken to Angela yet?

Liam hissed, his frustration bubbling instantly, his thumb hovering dangerously close to throwing the phone across the room. Before he could decide, another notification blinked on the screen. Another message.

I invited her over for dinner tonight. 7pm. Don’t be late.

That was it. His chest exploded with rage. “Okay, that’s it! I’ve had enough!” he shouted into the empty room. “I don’t even like Angela, but she keeps forcing her on me!” His voice cracked with exhaustion.

He flung the phone back onto the bed, its screen lighting up briefly before dimming again, like even the device was tired of the same cycle. Slowly, he dragged himself out of bed, each step sluggish, heavy.

As he stepped into the living room, he was greeted by the calm, motherly voice of Miss Margaret, the housemaid who’d been with the family for years. She stood in her neat uniform, her hair tucked into a bun, always carrying herself with quiet grace.

“Good morning, Mr. Liam,” she said warmly.

“Morning, Miss Margaret,” Liam replied, though his tone was weary as he moved toward the TV shelf.

“I made breakfast already. Do I set the table now?” she asked, her voice careful.

“Oh yes, please. I’m starving. And…I kind of have a hangover. Can you make me something for that too?”

“Of course, sir,” she said, already turning toward the kitchen.

Liam shook his head with a faint smile. “There we go again, just ‘Liam’, Miss Margaret. Enough with the formalities.”

She chuckled softly, a little embarrassed. “Ah, I’m sorry. Old habits. Haven’t gotten used to it.”

“It’s okay. You will,” he said, sinking into the couch, his body melting into the cushions as if they were the only safe space left.

Within minutes, the aroma of food filled the air. Miss Margaret returned with breakfast and something to ease his pounding head. Liam ate slowly, almost mechanically, his mind elsewhere. He could feel her gaze on him, gentle but worried, as if she knew the storm he was carrying.

After breakfast, he wandered around the house aimlessly. From the study to the balcony, from the hallway to the living room again, he moved like a ghost trapped in his own home. No matter where he went, the weight of his mother’s expectations clung to him.

By the time the clock ticked closer to noon, reality pushed him to action. He had to prepare for lunch. He pulled out his phone and dialed Maureen’s number.

“Hello,” he said, his voice still sluggish.

“Hi…sir,” came her careful reply.

“Liam, please,” he corrected softly, though his tone lacked its usual charm. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes. Be dressed up already.”