James
6 years ago.
What would you do on your 18th birthday when your mom tells you that your father is not your real father? When my mother pulled me into the study, closed the oak door behind us, and told me the truth like it was some small administrative correction. That was three years ago, time driving past to the night of my 21st birthday. Today. Right now. The ballroom glitters like a goddamn dream someone else is having. Marble floors polished so bright they reflect the crystal chandeliers above, each one dripping with hundreds of lights that make everything sparkle. Gilded archways stretch high into a vaulted ceiling painted with Renaissance-style angels, not that anyone's looking up. The room is buzzing with well-dressed bodies, laughter, champagne flutes clinking like windchimes, and an orchestra playing something elegant in the background that I can't even process. And it's a lot of fucking guests. It's not helping that my mind is elsewhere as I smile fakely as fuck at everyone who comes up to shake my hand and say things like "You've grown into such a fine man," or "Your father must be so proud."
I'm fucking hollow. My smile hurts. My jaw's tight. My hands are cold. I feel like I'm floating slightly outside my own body, watching myself play the role I've been groomed for since birth. The Good Son. The Heir. The Lie. My heart's a clenched fist. My stomach keeps folding in on itself like it's trying to disappear. You'd think that after three years, I should be used to that information now, dulled in its edges that it became a scar instead of an open wound. And it's not like he ever treated me badly. Ever. He was there for every scraped knee, every school play, every broken heart. He taught me how to ride a bike, how to shake a man's hand like I meant it, and how to carry our name with pride. He was my father. In all the ways that matter. Except the one that now keeps me awake at night.
Everytime, our eyes meet, my thoughts spiral into who is my real father. Does he know I exist? What did he give me, besides the biology in my bones? Did he want me? Was I a mistake? A secret? And all the while, I pretend like nothing's wrong. Like I'm not unraveling beneath this suit and these smiles and this legacy I might not even be entitled to. As I force my gaze around the room, I catch a glimpse of my mom near the grand staircase, sitting in her chair, silver-gray shawl draped over her shoulders, the kind she always wears when she's tired but still trying to keep appearances. The chandelier light above her casts a soft glow against her skin, highlighting the fine lines around her mouth. She's surrounded by a few older guests, polite smiles and forced laughs, but when her eyes meet mine, everything in the room falls away. Her gaze is soft, but there's that tightness around her mouth that tells me she's worried, not just about tonight, but about me, about the way she's always worried.
"You look like a hostage."
I don't turn right away. I don't have to. I already hear the smugness in her tone, practically see the tilt of her head, the perfectly arched brow she weaponized since we were kids. She sidles up beside me, in a black satin dress that manages to be both elegant and unapologetically dangerous; like if fashion and violence had a baby. She clinks her glass gently against mine. Fleory Moretti. Same Fleory who used to eat dirt with me in the garden when we were four. Same Fleory who dared me to stick chewing gum under the church pews. The girl who once punched my cousin in the face at age eleven for calling me "soft." The kind of girl who could set a building on fire and make it look like art.
"You always bring such warmth."
She grins, takes a sip, and shrugs. "Well, someone's gotta say what the rest of this overpriced ballroom's too Botoxed to admit."
I exhale, trying to smile. Fails. Ends up somewhere between a grimace and a twitch.
"I'm fine."
"Mmhmm. And I'm a nun."
She leans in a little, drops her voice.
"Look, I know you're spiraling. Your energy's all—" she waves a hand vaguely "—'hot existential mess wearing Armani.' And I get it. But standing here brooding while old men whisper about your jawline isn't going to fix shit."
"You got a plan then?"
"Actually. Yeah."
She pulls something from her clutch, a beat-up piece of folded paper, and slides it into my hand.
"Russia. That's where your biological father is. Moscow, specifically."
"How the fuck…," I stop myself, forgetting whatever you ask of Fleory, she will find it in less than a day, "...Russia?"
"Da, comrade."
"You're joking."
She sips her champagne with deliberate calm.
"I'm wearing five-inch heels and I still climbed a back fence last night to plant a tracker on someone's car. Do I look like I have time for jokes?"
Who is she stalking now? I nod as expected before she goes into detail, and unfold the paper. It's a name I don't recognize. Radomir. An address I definitely can't pronounce. Scribbled coordinates. A time zone six hours ahead of mine.
"God," I murmur. "You really think he's there?"
"I think," she says, locking eyes with me, "if someone blew a hole in my life that big, I wouldn't let it just echo."
That lands.
"What am I even supposed to do in Moscow? Show up at his door and say, 'Hi, I'm the son you didn't raise, just came to process my trauma in person?'"
Fleory shrugs.
"You're charming. You'll improvise."
"And what about all this?" I gesture toward the ballroom; the orchestra, the guests, the empire built on blood and tradition and secrets.
"Our families have been cleaning up messes since before we had teeth," she says, matter-of-fact.
"Yours can survive a week without you. If not, maybe you should let it burn."
I look at the paper again. A father. Not the man who raised me. Not the man being toasted in gold and champagne tonight. But the one who left a question mark in my bones. And now, that question's been mapped out on cheap paper.
Fleory leans in, soft this time.
"You don't have to forgive anyone. Or even find peace. But you deserve answers. You're not a ghost."
"And what? You're just gonna stay here and keep the family from imploding?"
"Oh, baby. I am the implosion. I'll keep them entertained."
I breathe out slow. And for the first time all night, it doesn't shake.
"So?" she says, cocking her head, "You going to Moscow or what?"