Page 149 of His Drama Queen

Another buzz. This time I glance at the screen.

Vespera:You okay?

My chest constricts. She felt it. Felt my distress through the bonds even though I'm trying to shield it.

Me:Fine. Just a long drive.

Vespera:Liar. I can feel you freaking out through the bonds.

Me:Not freaking out. Just... adjusting.

Vespera:It's only two days. You'll survive.

Me:Will I though?

Vespera:Dramatic. Very on-brand for you.

Despite everything, I smile. Only she could make separation anxiety funny.

Me:I'll call you tonight.

Vespera:You better.

The conversation helps. Barely. But it helps.

By the time I pull up to the Ashworth estate, the sun is setting over the Atlantic, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be beautiful if I weren't dying inside.

The house rises before me like something out of a magazine spread. Three stories of pristine white columns and wraparound porches, manicured gardens leading down to private beach access. Old money elegance mixed with southern charm. The kind of place that makes it clear exactly where you stand in the world.

At the top.

Above everyone else.

I park next to Father's Mercedes and Mother's Range Rover, taking a moment to collect myself before facing them. I look like shit—dark circles under my eyes, hair not quite as perfect asusual, the general air of someone who's been fighting biology for six hours straight.

Not the golden boy they expect.

The front door opens before I can reach it. Henderson, our butler for as long as I can remember, greets me with his usual professional warmth.

"Master Dorian. Welcome home."

"Henderson." I step inside, breathing in the familiar scent of old money and fresh flowers. "Are they in the drawing room?"

"The terrace, sir. Your mother is hosting a small gathering."

My stomach drops. "A gathering?"

"Just a few guests, sir. Nothing formal."

Which means it's absolutely formal and I'm underdressed in jeans and a button-down. Fuck.

I head through the house, each room a monument to Ashworth legacy. Family portraits line the walls—generations of Alphas staring down with varying degrees of judgment. My grandfather who built the family fortune. My great-grandmother who married into European nobility. My father shaking hands with three different presidents.

And conspicuously absent: Julian. His portrait was removed the day he was disowned, like he'd never existed at all.

I wonder if they have a frame ready for me.

The terrace overlooks the ocean, and Mother has transformed it into something out of a garden party fantasy. String lights, elegant furniture, a table laden with expensive appetizers. And scattered throughout: people.