Page 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Maggie

" S o, then the T-Rex says to the stegosaurus, 'You're looking a bit plate today!'" I deliver the punchline with jazz hands.

Finn giggles through a mouthful of pancake. "Another one!"

"Let the poor girl eat her breakfast," Candice chides, sliding another stack of fluffy pancakes onto a plate.

The kitchen smells amazing—like butter and vanilla and childhood memories. And she's laid out a feast of toppings—fresh berries, whipped cream, chocolate chips, and three kinds of syrup.

"Has Xavier been down yet?" I ask, trying to sound casual while helping Finn cut his pancake into more manageable pieces.

Candice shakes her head. "Haven't seen him this morning." She gives me a knowing look. "Heard it was quite a night."

"Yeah…" I meet her eyes briefly. "It was."

We share a silent moment of understanding, both conscious of Finn happily demolishing his breakfast beside me.

"More strawberries please!" He waves his plate.

"Coming right up, sugar." Candice reaches for the bowl, but freezes mid-motion, her eyes fixed on something behind me. "Oh, honey…"

I turn and my stomach drops. Xavier sidles in, looking three times worse than when I left him last night. His eye is almost completely swollen shut now, and angry purple-blue bruising spreads across his inflamed jaw and cheekbone like spilled ink .

"Xavy!" Finn's fork clatters to his plate. He scrambles off his stool and runs to his brother, wrapping his arms around Xavier's waist. "What happened to your face?"

Xavier winces at the impact but hugs Finn back with one arm. "It's nothing, buddy. Just got checked against the boards real hard at a game."

"But you're all purple and puffy!" Finn's bottom lip trembles as he stares up at Xavier's battered face. "I don't like hockey anymore. Hockey is bad! "

I watch Xavier attempt a reassuring smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. "Just an accident, Finny. I'm fine."

Candice swoops in, her hands gentle as she cups Xavier's face, brushing his hair back to get a better look. "Oh, sweetheart…" Her hands hover like she’s holding a broken masterpiece. "I'll get you ice."

Xavier pulls away. "It's fine." He heads straight for the coffee machine. Finn trails after him like a worried shadow, still clinging to his leg.

Time for a distraction. I walk over and take Finn's small hand in mine. "Hey, don't you want to show Xavier your special breakfast?"

"Oh yeah!" Finn's eyes light up and he tugs Xavier toward his plate. "Look! It's a T-Rex pancake! See his teeny-weeny arms?" He points out each feature with pride. "Candice made it just for me. You should get one too!"

Xavier cradles his coffee mug close to his chest, taking careful sips. "That's pretty cool, bud."

"What kind of dinosaur are you gonna get?" Finn bounces on his toes. "She can make a stegosaurus. Or a triceratops."

The tension in Xavier's shoulders eases slightly as Finn rambles on about dinosaurs, his earlier distress forgotten in the excitement of showing off his breakfast masterpiece.

"Here, honey." Candace slides a towel-wrapped ice pack across the counter to Xavier. "You'll need to—"

Her words die in her throat as heavy footsteps echo down the hall. A formidable-looking silver-haired man appears like a storm front rolling in, and the kitchen's warm atmosphere instantly crystallizes into something cold and brittle .

"Mr. Rockwell… good morning," Candice breathes, quickly wiping her hands on her apron.

He doesn't acknowledge her.

I know Barron Rockwell is in his early eighties, but he's definitely no frail old man. More like a seasoned powerhouse to be reckoned with. He's tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders wrapped in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit. His steel-gray hair is immaculately styled, swept back from a face with sharp features that mirror Xavier's, but where Xavier's hold a hint of warmth, Barron's are carved from time-worn granite. And despite his age, he moves with the calculated precision of someone used to commanding every room he enters.

"Where is he?" his voice booms through the kitchen until his pale eyes lock on Xavier. The temperature in the room drops another ten degrees.

Xavier's hand tightens around the ice pack, his scraped knuckles whitening. Beside me, Finn shrinks into himself, pressing against my leg. I resist the urge to pull him behind me completely.

Barron strides into the kitchen, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. Denise hovers in his wake, her typically composed features pinched with worry as she clutches her tablet to her chest.

The kitchen feels like it's been vacuum-sealed, all the air sucked out in an instant. Xavier rises slowly, and I catch the subtle way he shifts, angling his body to keep Finn partially shielded behind him. My heart thuds against my ribs as Barron's cold gaze dissects his son.

His lip curls. "You look like someone auditioning for the role of 'forgettable thug' in a bad action film."

Xavier's throat works as he swallows, but he remains silent, his face carefully blank despite the ugly rainbow of bruises.

"Tell me, Xander, did it ever occur to you that your actions affect more than just yourself, or is self-awareness still a foreign concept to you?"

My eyes snap to Candice across the counter, stunned that Barron just got his own son's name wrong. I mean, what the actual hell? She meets my gaze, her lips pressed into a thin line.

This is next level… the kind of thing you can't make up, it 's so sad.

Xavier's eyes drop for just a fraction of a second before lifting again, his expression wiped clean before any of us can catch his reaction to the name slip-up.

"I had to cancel my meeting in New York this morning to fly back and deal with this mess." Barron's voice drips with disdain. "Only perhaps I needn't have bothered. Hmm? Perhaps it's a waste of time to have Miranda start drafting a press release now. Who knows if you're planning to provide us with another scandal by lunch." He moves in closer, adjusting his cufflinks with precise movements. "Or is that why you think I have a lawyer on retainer—just to deal with your next inevitable outburst?"

I want to scream at Barron that Xavier was defending his friend, that he's not some violent thug. That he's actually a good person who takes care of his little brother and writes beautiful music when no one's listening. But the words stick in my throat as I watch the light in Xavier's eyes darken—not with anger, but something quieter. Something that looks a lot like surrender.

"I'll pay you back for the lawyer's fees," he says, his voice eerily calm. "I didn't—"

Barron cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "And what about the price of dragging the family name through the mud? How will you repay me for that?" His voice rises, filling the kitchen with cold fury. "Or is this how you repay me for a lifetime of privilege—by hauling our name into the gutter with your juvenile antics?"

Finn's small fingers dig into my leg. I rest my hand on his, feeling him tremble. Across from me, Candice has gone completely still, her normally warm presence frozen in place. Even Denise looks like she's holding her breath.

Xavier's bruises stand out, dark and damning, but his face gives nothing away. No anger, no flicker of pain—just a stillness that's so deliberate, and so resigned, that it feels practiced.

"I was defending a friend," he finally says. His voice low, almost soft, but impressively undaunted.

Barron chuckles darkly. "Ah." He nods slowly. "Well, that answers that question, then…. I was curious if it was courage or stupidity that drove you to throw pu nches in public." He arches a bushy eyebrow. "Now I know they are obviously one and the same in your case."

The ensuing silence stretches like a rubber band. Xavier's lips part slightly, like he might speak, but then he just huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head once—barely a movement at all. Which seems to infuriate Barron even more.

"What? Nothing to say to that?" he leans in, his presence filling the space between them. "You're being awfully quiet for such a tough guy."

Xavier sighs, meeting his father's stare with an equally steady one. "I'm not sure what you want me to say."

"You could give me an apology, for starters."

There's a beat of silence.

"I'm sorry you're disappointed."

Barron huffs. "I'm starting to think that being a disappointment is simply your natural state, boy."

Xavier's thumb strokes absently over the towel-wrapped ice pack he's still gripping against the counter, an almost unconscious movement, like he’s focusing on the sensation instead of the words.

"Tell me, was the thrill of your heroics worth the price of soiling the Rockwell family name?"

Xavier shifts his weight. The ice pack drips condensation onto the shiny surface through the towel. "Not sure I'd call a busted-up face and bruised ribs 'thrilling'."

I hear Denise inhale a breath.

Barron's face darkens to an alarming shade of red, his jowls almost vibrating, looking very much the old man right now. " You think this is a joke?"

Xavier drags his tongue across his split lip, slow and deliberate, like he’s considering his response. The dynamic between them makes my chest ache—it's like watching someone repeatedly punch a brick wall, expecting it to crumble.

"No. It's not a joke…" Xavier takes a few steps back, bringing the wrapped ice pack with him. A couple of drops drip onto his sweatpants, creating two dark circles. "I told you why I threw those punches. And I told you I'm sorry I disappointed you." He rolls his shoulders back, letting out a slow breath, jaw ti ghtening just slightly. "I'm just not sure what else you want me to say here." His eyes flit to the hallway that leads to the coat room, then back to his father.

Barron stares him down, inhaling a long breath through his nose. He exhales. I'm surprised it isn't steam blowing out of his nostrils.

Xavier glances at the door again. "I have hockey practice to get to," he says. "So…"

"Oh, you have hockey practice, " Barron drawls, his tone mocking.

"Yeah."

"And you're going to go—" Barron gestures up and down at his son's battered state with his wrinkled hand. "Looking like that?"

"Yeah."

"Well, far be it from me to keep you from hockey practice," Barron sneers. "I certainly wouldn't want this newfound penchant for bar brawling to distract you from the monumental task of squandering the rest of your potential."

Xavier nods, ignoring the insult. "Alright, then." He tosses the ice pack onto the counter, and I catch the slight tremor in his hand—a hairline crack in his carefully levelled facade. The towel unravels, and the ice pack skids across the glossy surface, launching off the far edge with a heavy thunk! against the floor.

Candice advances to retrieve it, her movements deliberately slow, like she's trying not to startle a wild animal.

Xavier circles the island, his shoulders rigid as he passes within inches of Barron. He absently scratches his stomach as he continues down the hall, his sweatshirt riding up to reveal a shocking expanse of bruised skin. The mottled blue-black pattern stretches across his ribs like an angry storm cloud. My stomach lurches at the sight—it looks way worse than it did last night.

"Christ," Barron huffs, but there's no concern in his voice, just disgust, like Xavier's injuries are a personal affront to his sensibilities.

Xavier doesn't pause or look back as he disappears into the coat room, leaving behind a silence so thick I could choke on it. I wait for Denise or Candice to stop him—tell him he really shouldn't be going to hockey practice in the state he's in. Point out he hasn't even eaten breakfast. But of course, no one does .

I start lifting from my stool to go after him, then realize I can't leave Finn. Even though there are at least half a dozen grown adults in his home right now, he's my responsibility. Xavier, apparently, is no one's.

Barron's attention suddenly sweeps across the room, as if just remembering we exist. His eyes skip over each of us—Candice still crouched with the ice pack, Denise clutching her tablet, Finn pressed against my leg, and me, probably looking stunned as an electrocuted guppy.

"Well," Barron straightens his already perfect tie. "I'm sorry you all had to be witness to that." His tone suggests mild embarrassment at having to discipline a wayward pet who took a leak on the carpet rather than genuine remorse. Down the hall, the faint sound of the coat room door slamming rattles the lingering tension.

Barron nods his head once in our direction. "I'll leave you all to get on with your day." Then he turns on his heel and strides toward the ornate hallway leading to the East Wing—that mysterious, closed-off, child-less section of the mansion I have even less desire to step foot in now that I've met one half of its' occupants.

The kitchen stays frozen for several heartbeats after Barron's departure. Then Candice releases a long breath, and Denise's shoulders drop from their rigid position. The air feels lighter yet still displaced, like a storm just passed through.

"Christ," Candice mutters, echoing Barron's earlier sentiment but with actual concern in her voice. She returns the ice pack to the freezer.

Finn tugs at my sleeve. "Is Xavy in trouble?" His brown eyes are huge with worry.

"No, buddy." I squeeze his shoulder gently. "Your brother's okay. He just needs to get to practice."

But I can't shake the image of Xavier's carefully blank expression, or the way he absorbed Barron's verbal attacks without flinching. The bruises from the fight will heal, but I wonder about the other kinds of damage—the invisible kind that come from years of conversations like the one we just witnessed. Because the worst bruises don’t show; they echo over and over again in silence.