Page 11 of When Hearts Awaken

Something flashes across Ian’s face, too quickly for me to discern, his expression solemn. I swallow and murmur, “You know you don’t have to do this. This tour will be linked to the scandal. You don’t need to tie your name to it.” It’s another source of guilt that’s been bothering me for a while. If this tour doesn’t do well, I don’t want to taint his hard-earned reputation with it.

I fucked up. I should be the only one to bear the consequences.

“I’m a Vaughn first, choreographer second.” A muscle tics in his jaw, and he reaches over and pats my hand. “Can’t leave my nephew to swim with the sharks alone. Your grandmother would skin me alive if she were still here.”

I laugh, a twinge of sadness mixing with merriment. She would have, but unfortunately, she passed away not long ago, and man, do I miss that ball busting woman.

He adds, “Plus, you’re like the son I never had. I need to look out for you even though you’re thirty-six and a grown ass man. God knows you’ve been missing a paternal figure in your life.”

Because my parents have never looked after me.

The words are left unsaid, but judging from the grimace on his face, he’s thinking the same thing. The old wound hidden deep beneath the layers of thousand-dollar suits aches. It’s pathetic to still feel this way about them.

“Have you seen them? Last I heard, they were in Lyon for their fourth, no fifth wedding vows renewal.” After another public spat that landed in the headlines: “Trouble in Vaughn paradise…again? Lovers’ spat got ugly in France.”

It was only the tip of the iceberg for what we had to put up with growing up in the Vaughn household. The embarrassment I had to face at school growing up, knowing gossip about my parents was plastered on the front pages of newspapers. I’d force myself to smile at my classmates, pretending I didn’t give a shit. The painful reality of being invisible to the two people who were supposed to love you more than anything else in the world because Peter and Martha Vaughn’s lives only revolved around themselves.

Some would say we were neglected. Abandoned. Left to starve for emotional connection. I’d say fuck them and fuck emotions. That’s what made Peter and Martha the way they are.

I swirl the contents of my tumbler and stare at the amber liquid. Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.

“Charles, you know your parents. Utterly wrapped up and besotted with each other. I’m sure they miss and care about you guys.”

I snort. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Ian drops the subject. “This goes unsaid, but you’re doing your best with the company. Better than I could’ve done in your shoes.” There’s an uncharacteristic hardness in his tone, but when I look up, he shrugs nonchalantly. He’s probably feeling guilty for not being in the family business.

“It’s fine. The world would be deprived of your art if you worked at the bank. And I like work.” Most of the time. I enjoy the numbers and analytics. Meeting new people I’m usually fine with.

Smiling at the fake shit spewing out from their lips?

The bane of my existence.

“Fy machgen, don’t be too hard on yourself.”

My boy.In our ancestral tongue. “It’s been years since you called me that, and I still can’t speak Welsh. I’m also a few years shy of forty, so I don’t think ‘boy’ describes me anymore.”

He harrumphs. “You’ll always be a boy in my eyes.”

A lump forms in my throat as I stare at him—visions of my childhood spent going to the ballet with him and Firefly, late nights watching old movies in the empty estate as Liam and Firefly bicker nearby, trips to the zoo—all things my parents instead of Ian should’ve done with us.

“You would’ve been a good father. Why didn’t you ever settle down?” I ask.

He stiffens before letting out a sigh. “This and that. Life is unpredictable that way. You win some, you lose some, Charles.” He takes a sip from his tumbler.

“But aren’t you lonely?”

Ian laughs and shakes his head. “I’m fifty-two years old and trust me, I get plenty of company.” Leaning forward, he frowns at me. “The question is, Charles, why areyoualone?”

I clutch my drink in a death grip as a barrage of emotions assault me—anger, resentment, bitterness, too many for me to name.

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that volatile emotions have no use in my life.

I don’t answer him.

Or perhaps I don’t want to have an answer for him.

Chapter 5

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