Broken Hands

149. The Grand floor

Time moved like a paradox—sluggish under a watchful gaze, yet blindingly fast when left unattended. One moment, they were caged in uncertainty, their futures hanging by a fragile thread. The next, they were home, as if nothing had ever happened.

Seasons changed, dictated by time's silent command. Time provoked seasons, and seasons resided within time. Ironic, wasn't it? How something so intangible could wield such control?

It had been a month since Russell walked free. Two since Grayson had. Almost four since the tournament that flipped their peace to chaos.

Everything had changed.

Especially Grayson.

To mark the shift from chaos to normalcy—or at least the illusion of it—Senior Smith threw a grand party, a spectacle to celebrate both Grayson and Russell's eighteenth birthday.

The Smith Castle was alive with movement. The halls buzzed with soft, elegant chatter. Now Julian understood why the tables were so impossibly long, why the ceilings soared high above them. Everything about this house had been built for moments like this—occasions where the world gathered in tuxedos and silk gowns, sipping from crystal glasses as if luxury was the only way to exist.

The air smelled rich, a mixture of fine wine, expensive perfume, and the faint trace of polished wood. Soft classical music floated through the vast space, a perfect accompaniment to the evening's sophistication.

The guest list was overwhelming. Some were family, others were friends, and then there were the friends of friends—strangers with the right last names and powerful connections.

Grayson had never been to a party like this. He'd seen them in the few movies Julian made him sit through, where the rich twirled around rooms without a care in the world. But experiencing it firsthand? It was different and he found no pleasure in it.

The party was in full swing. The chandelier lights shimmered above, casting a golden glow over the vast hall. The air carried the scent of expensive cologne, perfume, and the faint aroma of gourmet dishes prepared by the best chefs money could hire.

Grayson stood near Senior Smith, his body stiff in the perfectly tailored white tuxedo. The bow tie still felt like a noose around his throat, but he had long mastered the art of discomfort. He played his part well—shake, nod, smile, repeat.

Shake firmly. Look them straight in the eye. Smile like you mean it.

Senior Smith had taught him well. Exude confidence. Command the room. Own your presence.

Though the conversations were dull, the laughter rehearsed, and the pleasantries exhausting. Grayson followed the rules nonetheless.

Senior Smith had kept him by his side the entire evening, parading him through a sea of important people, introducing him as if he were some prized heir. Of course he wasn't even close to that, if anything he was glad his daughter left a piece behind. Grayson knew he would never inherit anything from his grandfather, not after what his mother did, she took everything. And Grayson didn't care about inheritance.

Russell sat at one of the long tables, dressed in an equally sharp suit, though his posture was more relaxed. He held his single crutch against the chair, his legs stretched out slightly. The past few weeks had been rough on him, but he was healing faster than expected, from the wheelchair to two crutches, now he used one. He looked better, too—less drained, more present.

Julian was beside him, looking completely at ease in the grand setting. He had always carried himself with an effortless innocent charm that made it easy to blend into any crowd, almost all the girls that walked by stared and giggled. Julian nudged Russell, saying something that made the older boy chuckle before sipping from his glass.