Chapter 12
Carl slipped out of the bed quietly, careful not to wake Robert. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city bleeding through the hotel curtains. Quietly, he reached for his clothes and dressed with practiced care, not wanting to wake Robert, who still lay asleep, his face peaceful.
Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, Carl flinched—over a dozen missed calls from Mom and Dad. He sighed.
Before leaving, he allowed himself one last glance at Robert. Then he slipped out of the room.
As he stepped into the hallway, he nearly bumped into a young woman.
"Are you okay?" she asked, steadying him. She had messy blonde hair, tied loosely at the back, and wore a sleek dress that had seen the worst of the night.
"What were you doing in that room?" she asked, eyeing the door.
"Umm… my friend stays there," Carl mumbled.
"Robert?" she raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah," Carl muttered, backing away. "I have to go."
He could still feel her eyes on him as he hurried down the hallway, not daring to look back.
By the time he reached the main floor, the gala was winding down. Music had faded, decorations sagged, and guests were trickling out. But his parents were nowhere to be seen—they had probably left without him.
Then—
"Well, well, well. If it isn't golden boy Carl Hale."
Carl froze. He recognized that voice in an instant—Ruben. He didn't turn around, just started walking.
"What? No snarky comeback?" Ruben laughed behind him. "Of course not. Little Carl only fights with daddy's money and mommy's PR team."
Carl's fists clenched.
"You're just a weak little freak," Ruben said. "Always have been."
That was it.
Carl turned and punched him clean in the jaw.
Gasps erupted around them. People scrambled. A few tried to pull them apart.
In seconds, a crowd had formed, and standing at the front were Jonathan and Yvonne Hale.
Ruben's mother pushed through the crowd, rushing to her son. "Are you alright, sweetie?" she said, cradling his face.
She turned on Carl. "How dare you? After what happened last time—"
Yvonne stepped forward, her expression cool. "We'll cover any medical expenses," she said smoothly. "We apologize for the inconvenience."
She glanced at Carl.
"Come. Now."
Carl said nothing.
And just like that, the Hales left the gala, cameras flashing as they exited—yet again, perfectly posed for a family that barely held itself together.
---
The journey back home was suffocatingly silent.
The driver didn't speak. Neither did Yvonne or Jonathan. The only sounds were the soft hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of Carl shifting uncomfortably in the back seat, still tasting the shame of the evening.
When they pulled up at the Hale residence, the grand house loomed like a cage. The chandelier lights inside were still on, casting a soft glow against the tall windows. The doors opened without ceremony, and they stepped in.
Carl had barely crossed the threshold when Jonathan's voice cut through the silence.
"Do you ever think?"
"Just once—just once, can you go somewhere and not disgrace this family?"
Carl turned slowly, his eyes tired. "I didn't start anything. He was the one who—"
"Don't give me excuses!" Jonathan's voice rose. "I saw the cameras. I saw you throwing a punch like a common thug. Do you know how many calls I've gotten tonight?"
"You mean do I care?" Carl snapped, voice tight. "Because I don't. You're not angry I hit him—you're angry it made you look bad."
Yvonne stepped between them, calm but visibly tense. "Jonathan, he's tired. This isn't the time—"
"No, Yvonne. He needs to learn."
"You're a Hale. Act like it."
Carl laughed bitterly. "A Hale? You mean lie through my teeth and pretend we're not all miserable in this perfect little show of a family?"
That did it.
Jonathan raised his hand and struck him.
The sound cracked through the hallway like a whip.
Carl didn't move.
Yvonne gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Even Jonathan seemed frozen for a moment—perhaps not expecting to actually go through with it.
Carl turned his head slowly back toward his father, his cheek flushed red. His eyes didn't water. He didn't flinch.
He just stared.
Then without a word, he turned and walked away.
Not another glance. Not a single word. His footsteps echoed down the hallway until he was gone.
Yvonne stared at Jonathan, eyes wide in disbelief. "What did you just do?"
Jonathan ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard, his face already paling.
But Carl was already gone—not just from the room, but from them.
---
Robert stirred in his sleep, one hand stretching toward the other side of the bed—empty.
His eyes blinked open. The warmth was gone. Carl was gone.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he sat up, fingers brushing through his hair. He wasn't surprised.
Then he heard movement—water running, the faint shuffle of feet in the bathroom. A soft smile tugged at his lips.
Maybe he didn't leave after all.
He stood, padded quietly to the door, and knocked once before pushing it open.
"Carl?"
A voice that was not Carl's answered.
"So that's his name."
Robert froze.
Julian stood in front of the mirror, towel-wrapped, drying her damp blonde hair with a smug expression plastered across her face. Her lips curled knowingly as she met his eyes in the reflection.
"What the hell are you doing here, Julian?" Robert asked, his tone already heavy with frustration.
She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Please. This room exists because of me, remember? I got it for you—for us. So technically, I can be here whenever I want."
Robert exhaled through his nose, already done with the conversation.
Julian leaned against the sink, smug. "So... the guy. Looked kind of cute. Real quiet when he tried sneaking out. You wanna tell me what's going on, or do I have to start guessing?"
"It's nothing," Robert said, brushing past her.
"'Nothing' was halfway undressed and looked like he'd seen a ghost when he saw me in the hallway."
She grinned. "You got a thing for cute guys now?"
"Julian, I'm not doing this," he muttered, stepping into the shower and turning on the water.
Julian raised her voice over the running water, teasing and relentless.
"Fine, fine. Keep your secrets, Professor Ashton. But just so you know... if I smell drama, I will sniff it out. And when I do, you better tell me everything. Otherwise, I'll drag it out of you myself."
Robert didn't answer.
He let the water hit his face, wishing it could wash away more than just the morning.