78| An Emotional Outburst

The staff rushed in, moving swiftly to separate Ethan from his father, but Ethan didn't put up a fight.

Not this time.

This time, all he felt was hollow.

Some of the staff tended to Robert's injuries, but no one came near Ethan. Maybe they were afraid of him. Maybe they should be.

He didn't even want to look at his father. Right now, he felt no regret for the injuries he'd inflicted. The only thing he regretted was how utterly drained he felt. He was sure his father still had that horrible snide expression on his face, but he was too tired to care.

"Enough!"

Evelyn's voice sliced through the chaos, sharp and commanding. The entire room stilled. All eyes turned to her.

"All of you, leave us. Now."

Robert looked stunned—probably because she was dismissing the staff while they were still tending to his wounds.

Holding a handkerchief to his bleeding lip, he started to protest, but Evelyn silenced him with a glare so cold it could have frozen water.

The servants exchanged hesitant glances. Evelyn Sinclair was the perfect hostess, the devoted wife—she never gave orders like this. But something in her tone left no room for defiance. One by one, they retreated, leaving only Ethan, Robert, and Evelyn in the dimly lit study.

Ignoring her husband's weak grumbles, she turned to Ethan.

And then, to his shock, Evelyn Sinclair—the woman who never appeared anything less than immaculate, in public or in private—knelt in front of him. Right there on the cold hardwood floor, her hands clasped together, her expensive designer dress pooling around her.

She didn't seem to care.

"Ethan," she said, her voice trembling, raw with emotion. "I am so, so sorry. For everything. For what he did to Sophie. For all the years I failed you. I am sorry."

For a moment, Ethan just stared. He couldn't process this. His mother—his mother—kneeling before him.

Why did she have the regret in her eyes that he had longed to see in his father's face?

His throat tightened, but when he finally spoke, his voice was low, thick with pain.

"Even though you were never kind to me," he said, directing his words at Robert, "I still believed that since I was your son, you loved me."

Robert shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

"I did everything to make you proud," Ethan continued, his voice gaining strength. "I sacrificed my happiness, my dreams—everything—just to earn one word of approval from you. I thought that if I worked harder, if I was better, you'd finally see me. But now I understand."

He exhaled shakily, eyes burning.

"You never cared. You don't deserve to be my father. You never did."

His voice trembled, but this moment—this was his.

And for the first time, he was saying everything he had ever wanted to say.

He had never really cared about those awards. He hadn't worked hard for the satisfaction. No. He had only ever hoped—prayed—that maybe, even for a second, his father would look at him.

Just once.

Why wouldn't he look at him?

Why?

After everything—after how hard he had worked, after all the times he had pushed himself past breaking, after all the sacrifices—why wouldn't he just look at him?

Just once.

Just for a moment.

Just why?

But instead, all Robert had ever done was try to make him feel empty. Like he was nothing. Like he was disposable.

Why? Why had he done that?

Why had he taken everything that could have ever brought him joy?

Why had he made sure Ethan had nothing left?

And when he did say he was proud—was he proud of Ethan? Or was he just proud of himself?

How could he have been so stupid?

Nothing he did would ever be enough. That was the truth, wasn't it? His father didn't even like himself.

So why would he ever like his son?

To be loved. To be cherished. To belong.

Ethan Sinclair had never known what that felt like.

Not until her.

In that moment, he remembered Martha—Sophie's mother—embracing him at her home earlier that evening. He had braced himself for anger, for rejection, for hatred. He had expected her to strike him, scream at him.

But instead... she had held him.

And that simple gesture had meant more to him than a lifetime of his father's empty praise.

Because love—real love—didn't come with conditions. It wasn't something to be earned, bargained for, or twisted into something cruel. Love was free. Given without expectation.

Just like the love he had given his father since the day he was born.

A love that had nearly destroyed him.

But now he knew what love truly was. Now, he knew what it meant to be loved without conditions.

And with that clarity, Ethan saw the truth.

His father had never loved him.

But Sophie did.

She loved him without expectation. Without a price to be paid. She loved him simply because she did.

And maybe that was how he wanted to be loved from now on.

Tears welled in his eyes, and for once, Ethan didn't fight them. He let them fall, unrestrained, his vision blurring as he turned to Robert—his father.

Or rather, the man who had never been a father to him.

Robert sat frozen, silent, unable to comprehend the weight of his son's anguish.

Ethan swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he spoke.

"I have no father anymore."

He exhaled shakily.

"I spent my entire life trying to be worthy of you, but I must have been out of my mind. I was so wrong. You were never worth any of it."

Robert's lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

"I could say you're dead to me," Ethan continued, voice thick with emotion, "but you were never really there. I spent my whole life creating a version of you in my mind, hoping one day you'd become him."

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"But he was never real. And he never will be."

He took a slow, steady breath.

"I'm sorry, Father. But I can't be the son you want."

His voice was calm now. Resolved.

"So let's end this twisted relationship."

Robert looked as if he'd been struck. His mouth opened, then closed. For the first time in Ethan's life, he saw something in his father's expression he had never seen before.

Uncertainty.

Fear.

Evelyn, still kneeling before Ethan, let out a broken sob. Tears streamed down her face as she reached for his hands, clutching them in her own.

"Ethan," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Ethan's chest ached. His mother—the woman who had always been just out of reach.

"Mom," he said, voice quiet but raw, "why did you leave me here with him?"

Evelyn flinched.

"Why did I never see you when I was growing up? Maybe you were the one who taught me that comfort was always fleeting."

Her breath hitched, her grip tightening on his hands.

But Ethan pulled away.

Abruptly, he stood, his decision made. He turned toward the door.

"Ethan, wait!" Evelyn sobbed, her voice breaking as she reached for him. "Where are you going?"

He didn't answer.

He simply walked out.

The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

Leaving his parents behind.

In the silence they had created.

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