Page 38 of Baran
“Thanks. All forgotten.”
“Thanks. And, Darien, thank you for giving me a second chance.”
“Follow the rules or there will be no third chance.”
“Yes, sir.”
For a moment, it felt like everything was right in the world.
“Are you ready to leave?” Daddy Darien asked.
“Yes.”
Baran stood near the entrance of the grand ballroom, his gaze scanning the room as he spoke calmly to a couple who had approached him for directions. His voice was steady, practiced—a smooth blend of professionalism and ease. The night was alive with energy, the glow of chandeliers reflecting off the polished marble floors, while the sound of laughter and soft chatter mixed with the notes of a string quartet playing in the background.
Paintings, sculptures, and exquisite glasswork were displayed in gleaming cases, their colors vibrant under the soft lighting. A sea of people in formal attire filled the room, all dressed to impress, mingling and admiring the art. Baran felt an odd sense of detachment from the scene—a spectator, not a participant. He was here to help, not to enjoy. But the weight of the gala, the expectations, were still there, heavy and present.
His black tuxedo fit him well, the fabric sleek against his skin, though his thoughts were miles away from the luxury of the event. He’d never imagined he’d be here, at this gala, not in this way, not with the life he’d carved out for himself.
Baran’s thoughts drifted back to earlier in the day when Daddy Darien had taken him shopping. The trip had felt strangely surreal—Daddy Darien, with his sharp, careful sense of style, had insisted Baran pick out a tux that wasn’t just acceptable, but outstanding. Afterward, they’d stopped by another store to get casual clothes for school and work, ensuring that Baran had a more rounded wardrobe. The entire experience had felt like stepping into a different world, one where appearances mattered in ways Baran wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
When they’d returned home to get dressed for the gala, Daddy Darien had helped him tie his tie with a practiced hand, as if it were nothing. The act felt intimate, as if their bond had deepened without either of them saying anything about it.
But now, here, Baran’s thoughts shifted back to the task at hand. The couple nodded, thanking him for his help, and Baran offered a polite smile, then turned away to continue his walk through the ballroom, past the clusters of people, avoiding their eyes.
He was alone when he saw him.
Baran froze. His heart skipped a beat.
Chapter Eighteen
Baran
There, at the edgeof the crowd, was Baran’s father.
Standing tall in a tuxedo, he seemed out of place, his dress a sharp contrast to that of the other guests. Baran hadn’t seen him dressed like this during his visits. He couldn’t believe it. His father, the man who had disowned him, who had rejected him for being gay, now stood before him in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, looking so very different from the last time Baran had seen him—back when he’d still been trying to fit into his old life and failed terribly on this visit.
Baran’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what to feel. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His father made the first move, stepping toward him with a tentative smile, his face softer than it had been in his office.
“Baran,” his father said, his voice low but steady. “You look…well.”
The words hung between them. Baran stood still, unsure of how to respond, his mind racing with a million thoughts, none of them making sense. This wasn’t how he’d imagined this moment.
“Father?” Baran asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
His father took another step forward, an almost apologetic look crossing his features. “I…I came to see you.” There was an edge to his voice that Baran hadn’t expected—an honesty, perhaps, or vulnerability. It threw him off guard.
“I know I wasn’t there when you needed me,” his father continued, his eyes searching Baran’s face as if trying to gauge his reaction. “And I’m not here to pretend I was a good father. I just…” He seemed to falter for a moment. “I want to get to know the real you, Baran. The son I…the son I should’ve been there for.”
Baran’s throat tightened. His father looked at him like he never had before, with a softness, a rawness that felt foreign. The weight of everything they had lost pressed on Baran’s chest, threatening to suffocate him. His father hadn’t just rejected him; he’d disowned him—pushed him away like he was something unworthy of love.
And now, standing before him in a tuxedo, his father was apologizing.
“I…” Baran swallowed hard. He could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. He wanted to shout, to scream at him, to say everything he had kept locked away for years. But the apology inhis father’s voice stopped him. It was like hearing the words he had always dreamed of. The ones that had never come, the ones that had always seemed impossible.
“I’m sorry, Baran,” his father whispered. “For what I said. For pushing you away. I was wrong. You are my son, and I love you—no matter who you are, or who you love.”
Baran’s breath hitched. He couldn’t keep the tears from welling up now. The years of hurt, the rejection, the loneliness—it all came crashing down on him. But as his father stood there, looking at him with those unspoken words between them, Baran realized he wanted this. He wanted to believe things could be different. He wanted his father to be proud of him, to love him for who he was.
