It was almost 6:00 p.m. when I climbed into my black Audi RS7, the bodywork still warm from the sun that had beaten down all day. The cabin greeted me with its usual scent: new leather, a veil of nutmeg and pink grapefruit from my cologne that had settled into the seats over the months, a luxury I could never completely shake off.

I closed the door with a muffled thud, separating myself for a moment from the sonic chaos of Manhattan.

I'd calculated two and a half hours to reach my parents' villa in the Hamptons, hoping the Long Island Expressway wouldn't turn into the usual Sunday hell. Late May wasn't peak season yet, but Sunday evening was still an exodus: families heading back from the beach, trunks loaded with umbrellas and damp towels, everyone with sunburned skin and that smug air of someone who'd stolen a weekend by the sea.

I slipped the phone into the magnetic mount fixed to the dashboard, the screen lighting up for an instant with a dim glow before going dark. Then I inserted the key, pressed the start button, the engine waking with a vibrating rumble. I merged into Midtown traffic: brake lights flashing in a red chain ahead of me, a taxi brushing past with a screeching horn like a free insult.

I thought about my family.

No matter how hard I tried to keep my distance as much as possible, I couldn't completely. My father had always been cold, detached, a silent observer who judged without uttering a word, when his voice still flowed easily, before the stroke stole his speech and movement. My mother, on the contrary, possessed an almost inexplicable talent: she always managed to bring me back to her, with the same implacable force of a tide creeping slowly up the shore, without apparent urgency but granting no escape. Every phone call was a veiled summons, every invitation a thin thread that tightened until it made me yield, every seemingly innocent message hid a hook that embedded in the flesh.

I loved them, sincerely.

A complex affection, layered with gratitude for what they'd given me and resentment for what they demanded in return, a bond that had turned into a double rope: support and suffocation at once.

My parents had offered me everything: elite schools where my name opened doors before I even crossed them, trips to Europe when I still couldn't decipher a map, opportunities that for most people remained confined to the realm of unreachable desires. A life built on solid privilege, on a surname that weighed like a precious inheritance and at the same time like an inextricable bond.

But for a few years now I'd understood a truth that pressed on my chest like a slab of ice-cold lead: for them, nothing would ever be enough.

Every victory—a case closed in our favor, a billion-dollar client brought in, my name printed in the Wall Street Journal—was just a step toward the next expectation. "Good job, Andrew, but now think about the future. Think about family. Think about settling down." Words that sounded like compliments but planted like thorns, because behind them was always the same implicit demand: when will you stop being just yourself and finally become what we want?

Every recognition came conditioned, every step forward was immediately followed by a new goal, always higher, always farther, as if my existence were a project to complete, a balance sheet to close in the black, a work to finish according to their script, not something to live with my choices, my desires, my mistakes.

Every compliment carried an implied "but." Every success was just fuel for the next expectation: a suitable wife, children to show off, an immaculate public image that left no room for cracks or doubts.

And I, trapped in that mechanism, felt exhaustion accumulate not in my muscles, but in my bones, in my thoughts, in every breath I took pretending to be exactly what they wanted to see.

A perfect son.

A perfect Harrington.

A version of me that no longer existed, if it ever had.

And in that growing void, between the privilege wrapping me like a gilded cage and the desire devouring me from inside, I felt the rope tighten more and more, to the breaking point.

In that instant I wanted to swerve hard left, take the bridge toward Brooklyn or toward any place, vanish for an entire evening, let the city swallow me without a trace.

But something held me back, an invisible weight nailing me to the wheel, making every movement an act of resistance.

Maybe habit, that routine insinuating into muscle fibers until it became automatic reflex.

Maybe the guilt my mother knew how to inoculate with a single phone call, or maybe it was simply easier to play along with her scheme: preserve apparent balance, avert the inevitable scene, the icy silence that would fall if I didn't show up, the mute judgment that would follow me for days like a faithful shadow.

I turned on the radio.

They were playing "Every Breath You Take" by the Police, an '80s song that took me back to when I was a kid, in the car with my father, before everything became so... calculated. The hypnotic bass filled the cabin, but it didn't improve my mood.

I left it on anyway.

I glanced at the phone fixed on the magnetic mount glued to the dashboard, right of the infotainment screen: no notifications, just the black screen.

I thought back for a moment to Axel's words: "These social obligations are destroying you little by little, Drew."

I swept them away again, sighing.

As I drove, my mind inevitably returned to him, to the bathroom guy.

It hadn't been just a fleeting encounter.

It had been an explosion of pure desire: his lips seeking mine with famished urgency, his tongue slipping into my mouth as if every second of waiting had been unbearable. His hands, bold and sure, sliding down my body, gripping my already hard cock firmly.

And when he'd dropped to his knees, his greedy mouth enveloping me completely, without hesitation or restraint.

"Fuck!"

I growled through my teeth, gripping the wheel until my knuckles whitened.

"This is really not the time to get hard."

I wondered if he used that app I opened at night, when the silence of the apartment oppressed me. Would I recognize his body among those anonymous photos? A lot of physiques look alike, but him... he had something unique.

I'd seen him sitting with his friends, laughing, chatting. The ones who use the apps are often loners, like me: they arrive, take what they want, and then vanish into the dark.

Not him.

He had a life.

And that was exactly what I was missing.

The traffic thickened on the I-495: a slow crawl, red lights pulsing ahead of me like an irritated heartbeat.

I checked the clock: 6:52.

Shit, almost an hour had passed.

Ahead of me, an old Jeep slowed.

Through the rear window I saw a couple: him driving, her in the passenger seat, both belting out lyrics with the radio, hands brushing on the gearshift. They laughed carefree, like the world was theirs alone.

I gave a half smile, bitter.

I wondered what it felt like to be like that.

Free.

Without a parent who, at every dinner, reminds you with that veiled tone that it's time to "settle down," to get your head on straight, to finally choose the right life.

Without that constant, deep terror, rooted in your bones, of being discovered for what you really are: a man who desires other men, who loses himself in a forbidden touch, who lives in hiding to avoid risking everything.

I turned off the radio.

Silence was better.

I passed the line, pressing the accelerator as soon as the road opened. The asphalt grew smoother, traffic thinned, and the air coming through the cracked window changed flavor: first hot asphalt and exhaust, then a fresh, briny veil carrying the smell of the ocean. Fresh-cut grass, distant sand, salt. The sign I was almost there.

The villa appeared after the last curve: gray shingle facade, elegant and severe lines, wide veranda opening directly onto the private beach. The exterior lights were already on, warm against the darkening sky, and the sound of the waves, low and constant, arrived muffled by the high hedge that shielded the property from prying eyes.

I killed the engine.

I took the phone from the magnetic mount fixed to the dashboard, slipped it into my jacket's inner pocket, and got out of the car.

The driveway gravel crunched under my soles, a sound bouncing in the fresh evening air. Each step raised a slight aroma of damp stone and freshly turned earth, as I headed toward the main door.

My eye immediately fell on the Whitmores' black Bentley, parked precisely beside the fountain: shiny bodywork reflecting the warm veranda lights.

They were already there.

The evening had officially begun.

I rang the bell.

The door opened almost at once. Marco, the butler, greeted me with his usual smile: blond, short curly hair, brown eyes, immaculate white uniform.

"Good evening, Mr. Andrew."

"Hi, Marco."

"Your family is waiting," he added, stepping aside.

I didn't even make it down the hallway before my mother emerged from the living room like a diving hawk. She wore a midnight-blue dress that molded her still-impeccable figure, blond hair gathered in a perfect chignon, pearls at her neck reverberating the chandelier light in cold, distant glints.

"Oh, there's my dear son," she exclaimed in that cloying tone, taking me by the arm as if we were about to inaugurate a gala ball.

She leaned slightly toward me and whispered, without losing her smile:

"Do you realize what time it is? Twenty minutes late."

"The traffic was hellish," I answered softly.

"Well, you could have arrived in the early afternoon and been here for the guests," she retorted, the smile still plastered on her face, but her eyes sparkling with irritation. "And that light stubble... you could have shaved for the occasion, Andrew. You look like you just rolled out of a sleepless night."

I swallowed the reply pressing on my tongue. It was always like this: reprimands hidden in a glove of silk with thorns, especially when there were strangers around.

We entered the living room.

The Whitmores were already settled on the beige linen sofas. Preston stood first, extending his hand with a cordial smile.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Andrew. You've grown since the last time."

"I was seventeen," I observed, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, old-school businessman.

I greeted Caroline with a kiss on the cheek, her heavy floral perfume enveloping me for an instant, and finally Evelyn.

She rose from the sofa with a composed movement, extending her hand first. Tall, slender, blond hair falling over her shoulders in natural waves. Clear blue eyes, with that calm intensity needing no emphasis. The emerald-green dress fell on her with simple elegance: clean lines, soft fabric following the figure without overdoing, a sober cut highlighting secure posture without ostentating anything.

"How are you?" she asked.

I wanted to answer "not well," but the mask took over.

"Everything's fine. You?"

"The usual, stressed from work." She replied.

"I saw you did a shoot in the Maldives," I continued, for courtesy.

In that moment the living room door opened again. My father entered, pushed by a butler in an electric wheelchair. He wore his usual tailored dark gray suit, white shirt and regimental tie knotted perfectly, as if even from the chair he had to remind everyone who he'd once been: the man who commanded conference rooms and boardrooms without raising his voice.

Two years earlier the stroke had hit him hard: half his body paralyzed, speech slow, but his mind still sharp and lethal like a diamond tip.

I approached.

"How are you, Father?"

He fixed me with those eyes that forgave nothing.

"Apparently death doesn't want me just yet."

A heavy silence enveloped the living room.

My mother turned sharply, with that tight smile she always wore when she wanted to change the subject on the fly.

"Dear husband... always joking, eh?"

For her, in front of guests, everything had to be perfect: every gesture, every word, every silence. Calculated to the millimeter, without smudges.

In that we were alike, she and I.

The facade first.

The rest could crumble, as long as no one noticed.

The waiters entered with padded steps, silver trays perfectly balanced, champagne flutes catching the chandelier light and breaking it into sharp prisms.

The crystal tinkled softly as they distributed the glasses, a light and almost hypocritical sound spreading through the living room, coating everything in a patina of forced normalcy.

Evelyn settled back on the sofa with grace, her body occupying the space as if created for that sofa.

I remained standing, the glass tight between my fingers, the cold of the crystal biting my skin, as if the chill could hold back the turmoil boiling inside me.

Evelyn took the floor, as she always did when she felt the silence dragged on too long.

"I saw they chose you for the Lumière Noire campaign," she said. "I can say you're absolutely perfect for that spot, you know?"

I took a sip of champagne before answering. The cold bubbles prickled my throat, a small pleasant shock that gave me time to compose myself.

"Just a coincidence," I said, shrugging. "The Maison had gotten into a rather messy legal issue. I fixed it, closed the file... discreetly. As thanks they asked to lend my face for Lumière Noire."

Preston nodded immediately, with his businessman pragmatism.

"Excellent publicity for the firm anyway."

"Even if online they weren't exactly kind," I added, with a half smile.

"Come on, people are always jealous. You know that better than I do." Evelyn said.

I shot her a quick glance, answering with my glossy cover smile.

For an instant, a thought brushed me clear: maybe, if I were someone else, the two of us could have truly embodied the ideal couple everyone expected. Two heavy names joined, two lives aligned, two coordinated smiles for red carpets and front pages.

It would have been easy.

It would have been logical.

But we weren't.

And we never would be.

A waitress entered the living room with padded steps.

"Dinner is served," she announced.

My mother seized the chance to retake the reins of the scene, as always.

"Well, my dears," she said, rising with grace. "Let's take our seats."

I prayed silently that the evening would pass quickly.