"Go away, Tristan!" Adam's voice roared through the mansion, sharp and hoarse.
But Tristan didn't move. He stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, staring at the mess—empty bottles, shattered glass, and the faint smell of whiskey that clung to the air like grief. Without a word, he started picking up the bottles one by one, his jaw tight.
"Didn't you hear me?" Adam barked again, running a hand through his hair. "I said go away!"
Tristan ignored him. He carried the bottles to the bar counter, poured the remaining liquor down the sink, and shoved the rest into the cabinet, locking it shut.
Adam's anger flared. "Give me that back! You have no right to dictate what I do with my life!" His voice cracked mid-sentence, raw from nights of shouting at no one. "Just let me drink, Tristan. Please."
He wasn't yelling anymore by the end—it came out almost like a plea.
