“My family has saved thousands of people from the brink of death.”
Blair’s words echoed in Spencer’s head like a thunderclap, her prideful tone gnawing at him. To him, it felt like a direct mockery of the entire Dalton clan—a dismissal of everything they stood for. Her voice reverberated relentlessly in his head, so much so that he didn’t realize his car had veered slightly off course until the crunch of gravel jolted him back to reality.
Straightening the wheel, he quickly regained his focus and steered toward the farmhouse. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden hues over the tea fields. Shadows lengthened, stretching across the neatly trimmed rows that rolled endlessly toward the horizon. The cool evening breeze carried the earthy scent of soil mixed with the aroma of tea leaves.
His gaze swept past the rows of crops and the barn in the distance, landing on an unexpected gathering.
The Dalton clan, from his grandfather to his granduncles, uncles, and their families, filled the vast yard of the farmhouse with lively chatter and laughter. His gaze landed on his father, Arden, who stood tall at the center of the gathering, a polished wooden beer mug held high in his hand.
Arden’s voice resonated as he raised a toast, his words fading into the background for Spencer. The excited cheers and laughter that broke out afterwards suggested he was probably bragging about something. Spencer slowed his pace, his brow furrowing in confusion. What could warrant such a celebration?
The low, throaty growl of Spencer’s 1967 Chevy Impala drew attention as he pulled up to the farmhouse yard. His father paused mid-toast, his grin widening as he spotted his son stepping out of the car. The farmhouse door burst open, and his mother rushed out, her red polka-dot dress swirling around her.
“Spencer!” His mother’s voice rang out as she hurried over, wrapping him in an unusually warm embrace before he could fully close the car door. Her hands lingered on his shoulders as she beamed up at him. “Let’s go, my good son,” she quipped, her tone light as she tugged him toward the gathering.
He blinked, taken aback by the unexpected display of affection.
Arden’s booming voice resonated as he raised his wooden mug high. “Who is this handsome son approaching?” he called, drawing cheers and laughter from the crowd. With an exaggerated flourish, he added, “You’re right, my son!”
He froze for a moment, his confusion deepening. For as long as he could remember, his presence had often caused his parents to frown. Now, they were proudly calling him “son” for the first time—and in front of the entire Dalton clan.
His brow furrowed as he scanned the lively gathering, the clamor of cheers and laughter only heightening his unease. He leaned closer to his mother, his voice barely above a whisper. “What’s all this about?”
Before she could respond, her grandfather’s booming voice cut through the noise. “Ah, there’s our future doctor!” he declared.
He stiffened as his confusion morphing into dread.
“What…”
Arden clapped a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, grinning broadly. “This celebration is for you, son,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “For excelling at the most prestigious university. You’ve made the clan proud!”
His disgust intensified as the realization sank in. This was all because of one woman’s actions—Blair Wilson. He had never intended to excel at anything, let alone become the centerpiece of an academic farce. All he ever desired was an exhilarating spy mission like his siblings, not this unwanted attention.
“Dím’t!” he groaned inwardly, clenching his teeth as he struggled to suppress the urge to lash out. But with his grandfather watching him keenly from across the yard, he swallowed his frustration.
“Our boy,” his grandfather called, his voice steady and commanding. “Come here. Let us toast to your future.”
Even in his advanced years, his grandfather exuded a vigor that defied his age. His posture was straight, his movements deliberate and careful, and his eyes sparkled with the vitality of a man who had lived fully and still had much to offer. His energy could rival that of someone decades younger. Standing tall among the crowd, he appeared every bit the proud patriarch, a living embodiment of the Dalton legacy.
As night descended upon the farmhouse, the celebration became increasingly vibrant. Lanterns emitted a warm glow, and the rhythmic strumming of a guitar filled the air with a medley of country songs. Voices harmonized, mugs clinked, and laughter echoed as the family exchanged jokes and stories. Even Spencer felt himself captivated by the lively atmosphere.
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However, as the energy softened, the songs faded, conversations grew quiet, and the crackle of the bonfire filled the silences. Spencer, his tongue loosened by drink, broke the tranquility.
“Why do we kill people?”
The laughter and chatter halted. Faces turned toward him, and the atmosphere grew tense with the sudden change. Arden’s smile faltered, while his grandfather straightened his back with a sharp, scrutinizing gaze.
Before the old man could speak, Arden stepped forward, his jaw clenched. “Father, please,” he implored, his voice tinged with desperation as he tugged at Owen’s arm. Concern etched across his face—his furrowed brows and the way his eyes flickered between Spencer and his father revealed his anxiety about what might happen next.
Owen unclasped Arden’s hand with a domineering ease, standing tall as his gaze shifted to his grandson. The firelight cast sharp shadows on his face, accentuating his quiet authority.
“What’s wrong with you, Arden?” His husky voice, calm yet unsettling, seemed to chill the air. “Your son is curious. Shouldn’t I, as a patriarch, be the one to show him?”
“Let’s go to Lost Soul’s Forest,” Owen said, his tone as even as ever, yet heavy with meaning.
The name sent a ripple of unease through the gathered crowd, silencing the last of the murmurs. And Spencer had never seen his father panic like this. Arden’s usual composure crumbled as he reached out to Owen, his voice almost pleading. “Father, please, not that forest. Anything but that.”
Before he could protest further, Sonia stepped forward, placing a steady hand on her husband’s arm. Her expression was calm, but her eyes carried a sharpness. “As long as you won’t kill our son, Father,” she said firmly, her tone neither defiant nor submissive, but resolute.
Spencer’s face, usually resolute, faltered. His brows knit together, eyes widening as a flicker of unease broke through his usual arrogant confidence.
—————
After weeks of break, Spencer returned to a place he despised before, now cursing under his breath. The classroom buzzed with the energy of students eager to dive back into their studies, their voices overlapping in an endless cacophony that grated on his nerves.
And then there was Blair Wilson.
Like relentless mosquitos, her voice buzzed in his ears, an irritating sound he couldn’t silence. Perched on her desk, she animatedly described spending most of her break in the hospital lab.
“My grandpa scolded me like a lot that day,” she said, her tone tinged with mock humility. “Like I never saw him that angry before.”
Spencer clenched his jaw, the mention of the pond reigniting his irritation. Of course, it wasn’t enough that she’d jumped into the university’s filthy pond to save a student. Now she was bragging about how her family cared for her.
“And even,” she continued, her voice rising as if she were addressing the entire room, “the student admitted to lying about throwing something into the pond, my family had to make absolutely sure I didn’t catch any bacteria from the pond.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the notebook in front of him as if it could block out her voice.
But no matter how much he tried to ignore her, her presence was inescapable, her words swirling around him like mosquitos refusing to leave him in peace.
Spencer’s patience snapped like a taut string. He turned his head towards the student closest to his desk, a guy who was so engrossed in Blair’s heroic tale. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he leaned closer, enough to command the student’s full attention.
“Did you know that over the break, I had a fierce fight with a beast? All my limbs broke—except my face.”
The student blinked, visibly unsure whether he was joking or serious.
“But instead of going to the hospital,” Spencer began, his tone bitterly sardonic, “I ended up in a barn. No painkillers, no clean bandages—just me and the stench of horses. Every breath felt like it would be my last, and every movement sent fire through my broken limbs. I cried out, screaming for help until my throat was raw, but no one came. Not a soul dared. I had to crawl through the filth, dragging my body just to reach water—fresh water—clinging to life like some pitiful excuse for a hero in a cruel, forgotten story…”
He paused as he noticed the room’s attention fixed on him. Students stifled laughter, some exchanging amused glances, even the students circling Blair, turned their head to him, clearly entertained.
Blair’s amber eyes on him, tight-lipped.
He leaned back with a huff, arms crossed. “Oh, come on,” he smirked. “Your heroic actions are still more tragic if the student didn’t lie about throwing a deadly virus on the pond.”
Her expression shifted from irritation to something Spencer couldn’t quite place—concern? Before he could react, she grabbed his arm and yanked him out of his seat.
“Remove your hand—” he protested, but her grip was surprisingly strong.
“We’re going to the clinic!” Blair declared, her tone leaving no room for argument.
The classroom was stunned by her action.
“Did she actually believe him?” someone whispered, stifling a laugh.
“Maybe she can’t handle being mocked, so she’d rather cling to a ridiculous story,” another murmured, shaking their head.
As she dragged him down the hallway, Spencer’s nerves kicked in. He tried to mask it with his usual sarcasm, but his voice wavered slightly. “Are you kidding me, Ms. Wilson? It was all a joke to mock you!”
She didn’t slow down, her grip firm and her expression dead serious. “I know you are angry because you are behind me on the rank, but I have to make sure you don’t need medical attention anymore. I know you are poor.”
His unease grew. “Oh, come on. I might be a beggar if I couldn’t afford public hospitals.” He gave a nervous laugh, hoping to break her determination. “And I’m telling you I’m fine!”
“You look like one,” she mumbled.
He blinked. “What?”
“I said call me Blair.”
His lips curled into a tight, skeptical smile, as though the idea of calling her by her first name was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “I don’t plan to join your cult.” His eyes glistened into a scorn. “And for the record, I refuse to be the recipient of your disgusting charity.”
Her confident demeanor faltered. The faintest flush crept into her cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from the sting of knowing she may have crossed a line.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her voice tinged with regret. She released his hand without hesitation, taking a step back to give him space.