Chapter 2: The Rules He Never Wrote
I carried Milo out of the dining room without saying another word.
Not because I had nothing to say.
Because I had too much.
Anger was easy. Anger came naturally to men like me. I had built my entire reputation on knowing exactly what to do when someone crossed a line.
But this was different.
This was my son.
And when a child is afraid of his own father, the person who needs to answer for it is not the child.
It is everyone else.
The hallway outside the dining room was quieter than the room we had just left. The sound of my footsteps echoed against the marble floor as Milo rested against my shoulder.
He was lighter than he should have been.
That was the thought I couldn’t escape.
My three-year-old son felt too light in my arms.
I pushed open the door to my office and carried him inside.
The room smelled like old leather, wood, and the cigar smoke my father used to leave behind when he was alive.
Usually, this was the one place where I could think.
Tonight, I couldn’t.
I sat Milo down on the couch.
The moment my arms left him, his hand reached for my sleeve.
A small movement.
Almost invisible.
But I saw it.
“You can hold onto me,” I said softly.
His eyes lifted.
“Even if I’m bad?””
My chest tightened.
“Milo.””
He looked down.
“I spilled juice yesterday.””
I sat beside him.
“And?””
“Vivian said bad boys lose things.””
“What things?””
He hesitated.
“Dinner.””
The room became painfully quiet.
I leaned forward.
“Who told you that?””
He shrugged slightly.
“Everyone knows.””
Everyone.
That word stayed in my mind.
Because it meant this wasn’t one mistake.
This wasn’t one bad decision.
This was a system.
A pattern.
A child had been taught that being hungry was something he deserved.
I picked up the folded paper from my pocket and placed it on the desk.
“Milo, did you make this?””
He shook his head quickly.
“No.””
“Who did?””
His fingers twisted together.
“I don’t know.””
“Did someone tell you to copy these words?””
A long silence.
Then a tiny nod.
“Who?””
He looked toward the closed door.
Like even the walls could hear him.
“Vivian.””
The name left his mouth so quietly it almost disappeared.
But I heard it.
I heard every letter.
“Did she write the rules?””
Another nod.
“Why?””
His eyes filled with confusion.
“She said it was to help me become better.””
I closed my eyes for a second.
Because I needed that second.
I needed to control what came next.
My son was watching me.
He was studying my face.
Waiting to see if I would become another angry adult.
So I forced my voice to stay calm.
“Milo, listen to me.””
He looked at me.
“There are no rules where you have to earn love.””
His lips parted slightly.
“No?””
“No.””
“Not even if I make mistakes?””
“Especially not then.””
He stared at me like the idea was completely foreign.
A child should know love is not something that disappears.
A child should never have to ask.
But mine did.
A knock sounded at the door.
I immediately stood.
“Milo, stay here.””
His face changed.
The fear returned.
“Are you leaving?””
The question stopped me.
I turned around.
“No.””
I walked back and crouched in front of him.
“I’m opening a door.””
He nodded slowly.
“But I’m staying.””
Only then did I open it.
My security chief, Daniel, stood outside.
He had worked for my family for fifteen years.
He had seen enemies threaten us.
He had seen men beg for mercy.
But I had never seen him look uncomfortable.
Until now.
“Roman.””
“Come in.””
Daniel entered and glanced at Milo.
Then at me.
“I heard what happened.””
“I’m sure everyone did.””
He lowered his voice.
“Roman, there’s something you should know.””
I waited.
“The staff have been told not to interfere with Vivian’s parenting.””
My jaw tightened.
“By who?””
Daniel didn’t answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
“Caroline?””
He looked away.
“Your mother said family matters stay inside the family.””
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because I couldn’t believe the words.
“Family matters.””
I looked at Milo.
A little boy sitting quietly because he had learned silence kept him safe.
“That’s what they call this?””
Daniel stayed silent.
I walked toward the desk.
“What else?””
He hesitated.
“Roman…”
“What else?””
His expression hardened.
“The kitchen staff were instructed not to give Milo extra food after dinner.””
My hand closed into a fist.
“Extra food?””
“Because Vivian said he was being spoiled.””
I stared at him.
“He is three years old.””
Daniel nodded.
“I know.””
“No. You don’t.””
My voice sharpened.
“No one in that room knows.””
Milo suddenly spoke.
“Daddy?””
I turned.
“Yes?””
“Are you angry?””
The question broke through everything.
Not because it was unexpected.
Because I knew who he was asking about.
Was I angry at him?
I walked back.
“No.””
“Promise?””
I sat beside him.
“I promise.””
He studied my face.
Then whispered:
“Vivian says people promise things when they’re trying to make you stop crying.””
For the first time that night, my control slipped.
Not enough for Milo to see.
But enough for Daniel to notice.
Because Daniel had known me since I was a boy.
And he knew exactly what kind of anger lived beneath my silence.
I picked up my phone.
I called one person.
The line connected quickly.
“Roman?””
It was Vivian.
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
“You left without finishing dinner.””
I looked at Milo.
Then at the paper on my desk.
“You wrote the rules.””
A pause.
Small.
Almost invisible.
But it was there.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.””
“You wrote them for him.””
“Roman, you’re upset.””
“No.””
I walked toward the window.
“I’m disappointed.””
That was worse.
I knew it.
She knew it.
“Disappointed?”” Vivian repeated.
“Yes.””
A soft laugh came through the phone.
“You’re choosing a three-year-old’s interpretation over mine?””
I looked back at Milo.
“My three-year-old son was eating from a dog bowl.””
“You’re exaggerating.””
“No.””
“You weren’t there.””
“I’m here now.””
Silence.
Then Vivian’s voice changed.
The sweetness disappeared.
“You have no idea what raising a child like him requires.””
A child like him.
Those words sat in the air.
“What does that mean?””
She didn’t answer.
“Vivian.””
“You want honesty?””
“Yes.””
“He’s weak.””
The room went still.
Even Daniel looked away.
I lowered my voice.
“Say that again.””
“He’s too sensitive. Too attached. Too emotional.””
“He is three.””
“And he is your heir.””
There it was.
The real reason.
Not discipline.
Not correction.
Control.
She wasn’t trying to raise Milo.
She was trying to shape him.
“You think fear makes him stronger?””
“I think fear keeps him alive.””
I looked at my son.
At the child who was afraid to ask for dinner.
“That is not the lesson he will learn.””
Vivian sighed.
“You’re being dramatic.””
“No.””
I looked through the glass doors of my office.
Beyond them was my house.
My family.
My empire.
All built on the idea that loyalty mattered.
But what was loyalty worth if it protected cruelty?
“Milo will never sit beneath that table again.””
Vivian’s voice became colder.
“You can’t undo everything overnight.””
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What does that mean?””
Another pause.
Then:
“Ask your son why he was hiding there before dinner.””
My eyes moved to Milo.
He was watching me.
“What are you talking about?””
Vivian didn’t answer immediately.
When she spoke again, her voice was almost a whisper.
“Because that wasn’t the first time.””
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
For a moment, I couldn’t move.
Then I looked at Milo.
“Milo.””
He froze.
“Yes, Daddy?””
I walked slowly toward him.
“Have you been under that table before?””
His eyes dropped.
And that was when I knew.
The dog bowl wasn’t the beginning.
It was only the first thing I had discovered.
“Milo,” I said gently, “how long?””
His small hands gripped the edge of the couch.
“I don’t know.””
“Try.””
A tear rolled down his cheek.
“Since Mommy said…”
He stopped.
“Since Mommy said what?””
He looked at me with the same frightened eyes he had beneath the table.
And then he whispered something that made my entire body go cold.
“Since before you came home from the last trip.””
I stared at him.
My last trip.
The one where I was gone for six weeks.
The one everyone told me was peaceful at home.
The one where they told me Milo was happy.
Then Milo reached into his pocket.
And pulled out something crumpled.
A photograph.
My photograph.
But on the back, written in a child’s uneven handwriting, were four words.
May you like
Words Milo had been carrying with him every day.
*“Daddy forgot me too.””*
