“Let me be clear, Mrs. Chambers. Your son is under my protection now.” I straighten my already impeccable cuffs. “I don’t think you understand who you’re threatening.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she maintains her haughty expression. “I’m his mother?—”
“You’re nothing.” I cut her off. “Mothers nurture. They protect. They love unconditionally. You’ve done none of those things.”
I pick up her conversion therapy brochure and tear it in half, then quarters, letting the pieces flutter to the floor between us.
“You speak of ruining Elliot’s reputation in the art world?” A cold smile spreads across my face. “I own half the galleries in this city. The Frost family has connections to every major museum board on the eastern seaboard.”
I move closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear me. “If you breathe one word against him, I will systematically dismantle everything you value. Your social standing, your country club memberships, your charity board positions—all gone with a single phone call.”
I feel Elliot’s presence behind me, his hand still clutching my jacket. I reach back without looking and take his hand in mine.
“Elliot isn’t coming with you. Not today. Not ever. He belongs with someone who sees his worth, not someone who’s spent years making him hate himself.”
Mrs. Chambers recoils as if I’ve slapped her, her perfectly manicured hand flying to her throat in indignation. The color drains from her face before rushing back in angry splotches.
“You think your name intimidates me?” she splutters, her voice rising an octave. “The Frost family may control the art world, but I doubt Catherine Frost would be pleased to learn about her son’s... proclivities.”
I can’t help but laugh—a genuine, amused sound that clearly wasn’t the reaction she was hoping for.
“My mother?” I tighten my grip on Elliot’s hand, drawing strength from his touch. “Mrs. Chambers, Catherine Frost has known I’m bisexual since I was sixteen.”
The shock on her face is almost comical. People like her always assume their narrow worldview is universal.
“I’m sexually fluid and make no apologies for my choices,” I continue, savoring how each word lands like a precise blow. “Unlike you, my mother understands that who I sleep with doesn’t diminish my worth. In fact,” I add, “My mother hosts the annual LGBTQ+ fundraiser for Frost Industries. Last year alone, we raised three million for youth shelters serving kids who’ve been abandoned by parents just like you.”
Mrs. Chambers’ mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Her carefully constructed reality is crumbling, as if she can’t comprehend a world where someone of my status would proudly claim the identity she finds so abhorrent.
“That’s... that’s impossible,” she stammers, clutching her handbag like a shield. “No respectable family would?—”
“My family’s respectability comes from our integrity, not our sexual preferences,” I cut her off. “Something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”
Mrs. Chambers’ face contorts with fury, her perfectly lined lips twisting into a snarl of disgust. Before I can react, she lunges forward and spits directly at Elliot’s face. The glob of saliva lands on his cheek, sliding down toward his jaw.
White-hot rage erupts inside me. In my entire life, I’ve never experienced this level of protective fury. My vision narrows as I step between them.
“Get out.” My voice is deadly quiet. “Get the fuck out of this gallery before I physically throw you onto the street.”
She draws herself up. “How dare you speak to me?—”
I slam my palm against the reception desk, the sound cracking through the gallery like a gunshot. Several art pieces shake on their pedestals.
“NOW!” I roar, abandoning all pretense of civilization. “You come near him again, and I will destroy everything you’ve ever built. That is not a threat—it’s a promise.”
Something in my eyes must convince her I’m not bluffing. She backs toward the door, still somehow maintaining her air of wounded superiority.
“You’ve made your choice, Elliot,” she says, her voice trembling with venom. “You’re no longer my son.”
The bell jingles as she slams the door behind her. The gallery falls into deafening silence.
I turn to find Elliot frozen in place, the spit still on his cheek. His eyes are unfocused, his breathing shallow. I grab a tissue from the desk and gently wipe his face clean.
Something breaks in him then. His knees buckle as a ragged sob tears from his throat. I catch him before he falls, pulling him against my chest as he collapses into me.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps between sobs. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”
I guide us both to the floor, cradling him in my arms as years of pain pour out of him. His entire body shakes with the force of his grief.