Invisible String

Chapter 28 -The very first night

Logan's POV

"Hey, Mom," I said as soon as I answered her call. We hadn't spoken in weeks. I hadn't planned on calling her either, but I couldn't say I was upset she reached out—so long as she didn't ask me to come home. She always tried to bridge the gap between my father and me, as if sheer willpower could fix years of resentment. But that man... he was everything I despised in this world. Seeing him again wasn't something I looked forward to.

"Johnny told me you're living with a girl. You have a girlfriend? Is this how I find out?" Her tone was part surprise, part exasperation.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, already regretting this call. Trust Johnny—or John, as everyone else called him—to be the one to stir the pot. He was more than my cousin; he was my brother in every way that mattered. We'd been through hell together, and I trusted him completely. But last week, when he let it slip to his mom that Genesis was living with me, it didn't occur to him that my own mother, who'd been visiting at the time, would overhear.

I loved my aunt. I wasn't mad at her or at Johnny—these things happened. What annoyed me was my mom's unwavering belief that she still had a say in how I lived my life.

It was always: "You should do this," "You shouldn't do that," "Why don't you ever listen?"

Her voice echoed in my head as if she were still standing in the room, pointing out all the ways I'd failed to meet her expectations. Growing up, it had been relentless, like she thought she could shape me into the perfect son through sheer force of will. And when that didn't work, when I rebelled, she leaned on guilt.

But I was done with that. I'd been done for years.

That didn't mean I didn't love her, because I did. She was my mom, after all, and no matter how much she drove me up the wall, there was a part of me that would always care. But let's just say she wasn't exactly in the running for the Best Mom Award.

She was the kind of person who thought tough love was the only kind of love worth giving. That pointing out every flaw, every missed opportunity, was the way to make me better. Maybe she thought she was helping; maybe she really believed all those lectures and disapproving looks were what I needed to succeed.

But all they did was push me further away.

My father was the same, only worse. He didn't just criticize; he made it his mission to ruin everything I cared about. From a young age, I realized Simon wasn't fit to be a father—no surprises there. But as I got older, his hatred for me became painfully clear.

He despised the idea of me playing gigs with my band. The thought of me being a musician disgusted him. He said it made me "less of a man." He wanted me to go to business school, to follow in his footsteps, so I did. I got a scholarship, graduated, jumped through every hoop he set for me, but I never worked a day in the business industry. Instead, I stuck with my band.

He hated that. He hated it so much he went out of his way to make sure we'd never truly succeed. My dad owned one of the most exclusive bars in the city, a hotspot for celebrities and the elite. On paper, it was a dream gig—a place where any musician would kill to play. But for us, it was a gilded cage.

He pulled strings to get us signed to a shady manager he was friends with, someone who ensured we'd stay trapped in his world. We played at his bar almost exclusively, usually as a backup plan for when the headliners canceled or if he needed some background noise for a private event. The crowds weren't there for us; they were there for the clout, for the chance to rub elbows with the rich and famous.

My band and I spent two years as his unwilling entertainment. It wasn't about the music anymore—it was about control. He'd show up to our sets, critique every performance, and make sure I knew exactly who was pulling the strings.