Page 60 of Even Beneath the Stars

"I had to cancel my meeting in New York this morning to fly back and deal with this mess." Barron's voice drips with disdain. "Only perhaps I needn't have bothered. Hmm? Perhaps it's a waste of time to have Miranda start drafting a press release now. Who knows if you're planning to provide us with another scandal by lunch." He moves in closer, adjusting his cufflinks with precise movements. "Or is that why you think I have a lawyer on retainer—just to deal with your next inevitable outburst?"

I want to scream at Barron that Xavier was defending his friend, that he's not some violent thug. That he's actually a good person who takes care of his little brother and writes beautiful music when no one's listening. But the words stick in my throat as I watch the light in Xavier's eyes darken—not with anger, but something quieter. Something that looks a lot like surrender.

"I'll pay you back for the lawyer's fees," he says, his voice eerily calm. "I didn't—"

Barron cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "And what about the price of dragging the family name through the mud? How will you repay me for that?" His voice rises, filling the kitchen with cold fury. "Or is this how you repay me for a lifetime of privilege—by hauling our name into the gutter with your juvenile antics?"

Finn's small fingers dig into my leg. I rest my hand on his, feeling him tremble. Across from me, Candice has gone completely still, her normally warm presence frozen in place. Even Denise looks like she's holding her breath.

Xavier's bruises stand out, dark and damning, but his face gives nothing away. No anger, no flicker of pain—just a stillness that's so deliberate, and so resigned, that it feels practiced.

"I was defending a friend," he finally says. His voice low, almost soft, but impressively undaunted.

Barron chuckles darkly. "Ah." He nods slowly. "Well, that answersthatquestion, then…. I was curious if it was courage or stupidity that drove you to throw punches in public." He arches a bushy eyebrow. "Now I know they are obviously one and the same in your case."

The ensuing silence stretches like a rubber band. Xavier's lips part slightly, like he might speak, but then he just huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head once—barely a movement at all. Which seems to infuriate Barron even more.

"What? Nothing to say to that?" he leans in, his presence filling the space between them. "You're being awfully quiet for such a tough guy."

Xavier sighs, meeting his father's stare with an equally steady one. "I'm not sure what you want me to say."

"You could give me anapology,for starters."

There's a beat of silence.

"I'm sorry you're disappointed."

Barron huffs. "I'm starting to think that being a disappointment is simply your natural state, boy."

Xavier's thumb strokes absently over the towel-wrapped ice pack he's still gripping against the counter, an almost unconscious movement, like he’s focusing on the sensation instead of the words.

"Tell me, was the thrill of your heroics worth the price of soiling the Rockwell family name?"

Xavier shifts his weight. The ice pack drips condensation onto the shiny surface through the towel. "Not sure I'd call a busted-up face and bruised ribs 'thrilling'."

I hear Denise inhale a breath.

Barron's face darkens to an alarming shade of red, his jowls almost vibrating, looking very much the old man right now. "You think this is a joke?"

Xavier drags his tongue across his split lip, slow and deliberate, like he’s considering his response. The dynamic between them makes my chest ache—it's like watching someone repeatedly punch a brick wall, expecting it to crumble.

"No. It's not a joke…" Xavier takes a few steps back, bringing the wrapped ice pack with him. A couple of drops drip onto his sweatpants, creating two dark circles. "I told you why I threw those punches. And I told you I'm sorry I disappointed you." He rolls his shoulders back, letting out a slow breath, jaw tightening just slightly. "I'm just not sure what else you want me to say here." His eyes flit to the hallway that leads to the coat room, then back to his father.

Barron stares him down, inhaling a long breath through his nose. He exhales. I'm surprised it isn't steam blowing out of his nostrils.

Xavier glances at the door again. "I have hockey practice to get to," he says. "So…"

"Oh, you havehockey practice," Barron drawls, his tone mocking.

"Yeah."

"And you're going to go—" Barron gestures up and down at his son's battered state with his wrinkled hand. "Looking like that?"

"Yeah."

"Well, far be it from me to keep you fromhockey practice,"Barron sneers. "I certainly wouldn't want this newfound penchant for bar brawling to distract you from the monumental task of squandering the rest of your potential."

Xavier nods, ignoring the insult. "Alright, then." He tosses the ice pack onto the counter, and I catch the slight tremor in his hand—a hairline crack in his carefully levelled facade. The towel unravels, and the ice pack skids across the glossy surface, launching off the far edge with a heavythunk!against the floor.

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