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Those pale, gray eyes I’ve become so used to cement me to the spot.

Shut the door! Lock it! Hide!

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Like a prey knowing it’s been hunted, any small move will give away my location. Then he strikes.

Banding a tight fist around my bicep, my father hauls me forward, my feet slip beneath me as I tumble.

“Come on!” My father shouts. “I’ve had enough of your games!”

My tongue isn’t working. My mind is screaming at me to do something, accept I don’t make a sound. I scuff my toes on the cold boards of the patio, the ice on the steps, bites into my flesh as I’m hauled away from the cabin.

“W-Wait!” I gurgle, my stomach rolling and tears streaming from my eyes.

I can’t go! I can’t leave! I’ve made my choice! This is my home!

But I say nothing. My knees crumble beneath me and I fall. The ceramic dish tumbles from my grasp, yet it gets crushed under my fist. The sharp tink of it cracking is like an explosion in my ears.

“COME ON! QUIT WASTING MY TIME!” My father roars.

He’s clutching me tighter, pulling me from my crumbled heap in the snow. I sob, I can’t stop it. Why can’t I stop crying?

Suddenly, I’m no longer a man but a child. A scared, broken boy who’s just lost his mom. Who’s crying with his face shoved in her pillow, and the sounds of the funeral echoing from the garden where she’s being lowered into the earth. I wasn’t allowed to be there. My father said my crying was disruptive. That my whimpering was bothering the guests. Guests who had nothing to do with her.

A black SUV sits at the edge of the clearing, thick chains buckled around its tires. A man waits at the open door, his face downcast… bored.

“S-Stop,” I stutter. Snot rolls down the back of my throat, clogging my windpipe. I cough, gasping in a breath.

My father groans as he shoves me into the back seat, smacking my bare feet and slamming the door behind me. The smell of leather and cleaning products chokes me. It’s disgusting. It burns with every breath. It doesn’t smell like home.

With the door shut, the engine starts and we’re moving.

We’re moving! Get out! Run!

I lift my gaze to the forest dashing by in a blur. My father murmurs under his breath, wiping his hands with a sanitary wipe that smells of alcohol.

“Halfway across the damn country to find you in some hillbilly’s house on a deserted mountain,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “What a dump.”

I groan, clutching at my chest. It hurts. My heart hurts.

“When we get back, you’re going to forget this entire thing happened. I have a gala dinner to attend tomorrow and you’ll accompany me. And on Saturday I’ll need you to represent my board at a meeting in New York.”

A gala dinner? His board? New York?

It’s like two worlds are colliding in real time. My life of pine trees and hot springs, of Arden and his cabin. And then my life of fancy dinners, fake smiles, and champagne in crystal glasses.

“Stop,” I say again. This time my voice doesn’t crack. “Stop the car.”

As if I said nothing, my father continues. “The Bar isn’t until February, so you’ll have time over the winter to study. I’ve arranged a tutor to work with you four days a week.”

It’s like this entire year never happened. This blip of my existence hasn’t even nudged the dial. He doesn’t even care what I’ve been doing. He doesn’t want to know. Instead, my father has simply forgotten I ran away in the first place.

“Let me out.” I rise from the seat, wrapping my fingers around the door handle and tugging on it. But the door doesn’t open. It’s locked.

My eyes dart to the driver, whose jaw clenches, his fists tightening on the steering wheel as we race down the mountain.

My father’s voice echoes through my mind as if he’s speaking to me underwater. It’s muffled and empty. Just noise.

“I said, let me out!” My words rip from my throat. I suck in a breath, my eyes widening. I’ve never yelled at my father before.