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THE RUNAWAY PRINCE

Writer's picture: Justine CastellonJustine Castellon

Updated: Jan 28

A Short Story By Justine Castellon



THE CALL


 


Steven stared at the phone for a long time before stuffing it into his jeans pocket, his pulse hammering in his ears. The pub buzzed around him, oblivious. The place was small—gritty in that trying-hard-not-to-try way. Brick walls layered with years of graffiti, band stickers, and indecipherable scrawls. Lights strung overhead gave off a sputtering amber glow, just enough to make the scratches on the wood tables shimmer like old battle scars. Someone's laugh cut through the air, sharp, unguarded. It bounced off the low ceiling, blending into the percussion of bottles clinking and chairs scraping.


The smell of it all—sweat and fried jalapeño poppers, spilled IPA soaking into the wood, and that faint metallic tang of too many bodies in one spot—settled thick around him, dragging him back to the moment. To being here.


His guitar rested against the wall behind him, strings still vibrating in his mind like ghost echoes from the set he just finished. He performed covers tonight, mostly by Ben Harper. He wanted to pack up and bolt after his performance, But he needed to linger – and scout the competitions. He needed to guard his turf – in a place like this—vultures gather real quick.


Tonight, Steven stood quietly. His black shirt, simple and unassuming, was neatly tucked into dark jeans that hinted at his lean frame. Long curls of dark hair draped just past his shoulders, their wildness softened only slightly by the careless elegance of his posture. A few days' worth of stubble shadowed his sharp face, etched with a weariness deeper than physical exhaustion. His angled jawline and the proud slope of his nose. It lingered in the subtle authority with which he moved, in the quiet confidence that seemed to bleed from his very presence. His eyes carried the weight of something unspoken, their cerulean depths clouded with sadness.


The tattoos on his left arm crept like whispered stories beneath his sleeve—each line deliberate, delicate, like aged ink on faded parchment. They were a roadmap of detail—among them, one stood out the most—a delicate outline of a towering oak tree reaching upward toward his elbow. They were more than ink—they pulled at the edges of a memory. The swing. The tree. That backyard mishap left laughter and bruises behind. A long lost forgotten laugh had echoed in the branches then.


Mia, the bartender,  interrupted his thoughts and leaned over from the stool beside him, her hand lightly tapping his forearm. "Steven. You look like you might actually throw up."


He snorted, but the laugh felt forced. "Nah. Just... rough call."


She raised an eyebrow. "Rough, as in money's tight? Or rough as in, I'm-about-to-bury-some-shit-rough?"


Steven shook his head. "The latter. Definitely the latter."


Mia tilted her head, her purple bangs falling into one eye. Her tone softened, like she could read something in the way his shoulders curled inward. "You wanna talk about it, or we doing the whole brooding-silence thing?"


Steven almost barked out a laugh at that. She always did manage to cut through the static in his head. But this? What the hell could he even say? Oh, you know, just got off the phone with the guy I spent two decades trying to forget. Turns out, life isn't a movie. People don't stay buried no matter how many aliases you stack on top of your real name.


"It was my dad," he said finally, barely above a whisper.


Mia froze for a beat, her beer suspended halfway to her mouth. "Like, the dad?"


Steven nodded. His jaw felt tight, and for some reason, his vision blurred. Damn it. Not here. Not now. "Yeah. The one I haven't seen since I was... what? Thirteen?"


"Holy shit!" She set the beer down carefully in front of him, her tone shifting to something softer, gentler. "What'd he say?"


Steven licked his lips. The words felt stuck somewhere in his chest, like shards. "Didn't give him the chance. Hung up. Now I'm just... wondering how the hell he found me."


He stared at his hands, the calluses on his fingers a map of the last twenty years. The hours he spent learning chords on that beat-up guitar Father Raul gave him. The years running errands for the parish. Youth group rock nights. Those countless disastrous attempts at surfing lessons.


"Oh, man." Mia leaned back, looking him over like she was trying to gauge just how badly he was unraveling. "What'd you even do to stay off the grid this long? Fake mustache? Witness protection?"


"Worked odd jobs. Kept moving when shit stuck too much." He glanced her way, smirking just slightly. "No fake mustache, though. Missed opportunity."


She laughed lightly but didn't push. Just sat with him in the stretch of silence that followed, letting the pub noise fill the spaces where words didn't fit.


She slid another pint in front of him without asking. Steven nodded a thanks, wrapping his hand around the glass. The cold brought him back to the present, tethering him just enough. But that sick knot in his gut stayed.


His phone rang again.


"He's not gonna stop calling, is he?" Steven said, almost to himself.


Mia's voice cut through the haze. "You don't know that. Maybe he just needed to hear your voice once. Closure or whatever."


"Closure," Steven repeated, staring at the bubbles rising in his beer. "Sounds like a nice idea. Too bad it doesn't work like that."


Mia gave him a look—part sympathy, part challenge. "You're not a kid anymore. Whatever he's got to say, you can handle it. The question is, do you want to?"


Steven didn't answer. Couldn't. All he could think about was that voice on the other end of the line. Deep, steady, so much older than he remembered. And etched with something he hadn't expected. Regret? No. That couldn't be right.


The pub door opened again, another gust of night air rolling through. Steven glanced toward it instinctively, half expecting to see a shadow from his past waiting for him in the doorway. But it was just another band hauling in equipment, laughing and grumbling about cables and soundchecks.


He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaustion settling in like lead.


"Another round?" Mia called over.


Steven shook his head. "Nah. Just the tab."


"You heading out?" Mia asked.


"I think I need to walk," he said, sliding some crumpled bills onto the bar. "Clear my head. Figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do next."


She didn't fight him on it. Just gave him a slight nod, her expression soft. "Ditch your phone on your way out. Problem solved."


Steven managed a small smile. "Thanks for the tip."


And just like that, he was out the door. Into the cool LA night, where the air was riddled with car horns and faint sirens in the distance. He didn't know where he was going. Just that he needed to move. Needed to think.


One thing was clear, though. No matter how fast he walked, the past would catch up and wouldn't stay buried—nah… not this time.


He fished the phone from his jeans pocket –16 missed calls. The trembling in his hand barely stopped as he stared out at the amber-lit street beyond the pub's window. That voice. His father's voice. After all these years, he thought it would have lost its weight. Grown muted. Maybe slipped into the recesses of forgotten memories. But no. It was raw. Pressing into him like gravel underfoot, dragging him back to where it all started.


He tried to forget—God, he tried. But here it was, unshakable as smoke. And in the swirl of it, the past clawed its way to the surface as if summoned. He wasn't in LA anymore. He was twelve. Half a kid but already worn old in ways no one could carry gracefully.




HIS MOTHER'S PRINCE


 

The day Steven's world collapsed was the day the earth swallowed his mother. She had always been the sun—a light too bright for anyone to truly deserve—and now that light was gone, fading into the rain-soaked Virginia ground. The cemetery was cold and muted, the kind of place where time seemed to pause out of respect for grief.


He was twelve years old, too young to carry the weight of something so final, but the emptiness had already settled in his chest, heavy and irreversible. The rain came down in sheets, blurring the edges of the world until it was just him, the casket, and the steady drumming of water on umbrellas. The priest's voice filtered faintly through the storm, speaking words of solace that Steven wasn't ready to hear, wouldn't hear.


He couldn't look at the grave any longer. The sight of it—the dark hole in the soaked ground, lined with cold plastic—made his stomach twist. His mother had been sick for months, too weak to move from her bed toward the end. Even then, she'd smiled for him. She'd told him everything would be okay. She lied.


"You're a prince, sweetheart," she would say sometimes, brushing the curls from his forehead after snuggling his blankets. "The son of one of the richest men in the world, don't you know that? A true prince."


At the time, it had meant nothing to Steven. Their life had been simple, happy enough. A big house with creaky floors and sunlit rooms. Church potlucks on Sundays. The kids from the neighborhood gathering on their porch with scabbed knees and sticky popsicle fingers. His father's name had only been an echo—something adults whispered about with hushed reverence or envy. Birthdays were the only occasions he saw Hector Archibald III, who swept in like a ghost straining to appear human, left behind a weighty gift Steven never asked for, and disappeared just as quickly. Never Christmas. Never Thanksgiving. Steven never questioned it.


His mother had been enough.


Until she left him ultimately.


Beside him, Hector stood motionless under an enormous black umbrella, his suit sharp and unwrinkled, impervious to the rain. He twisted a gold cufflink between his fingers, his posture stiff, his expression colder than the air around them. Steven glanced sideways at him, unsure what to make of the man. The richest man in New York City. A name thrown around in every headline, an empire's shadow stretching behind him. To Steven, he might as well have been a statue, lifeless and impenetrable.


The rain grew heavier, drumming now, and the priest droned on with his eulogy—words of eternal peace Steven couldn't connect to or believe. He felt removed, as though somewhere between the diagnosis and this moment, a part of him had become untethered from the rest.


The priest finished his final rites, and the small, gathered crowd began to disperse around them. There were handshakes and condolences given in murmurs. He didn't hear the words, didn't feel the gentle hands on his shoulder as people said goodbye. The world locked out his grief with a cold hum that buried itself under his skin.


When everyone had gone, his father's hand came to rest on his shoulder for the first time. It was awkward. Hesitant. But for a moment—a single aching moment—it felt strong, a weight holding Steven steady before the rain and hollowness could sweep him away.


Hector finally broke the silence between them, his voice low and deliberate. "We should leave soon. You'll catch a cold out here."


"I'm fine," Steven said, the words empty, the hollow in his chest swallowing any trace of emotion. Hector's glance shifted downward at him briefly before returning to the casket.


"She wouldn't want you to stand in the rain like this," Hector added, as if that might make Steven move.


Steven tightened his grip on the handle of his own umbrella, knuckles white beneath his too-big black coat. "She wouldn't want to be in a box in the ground, either."


The remark was sharp, but Steven barely registered it. His throat tightened against the tears he'd been fighting for hours. He hadn't even cried in her hospital room; he didn't want her last sight of him to be messy and weak.


Hector's response came late. Deliberate. "No, she wouldn't." His voice softened, just slightly. "But this is what is."


What is. Two words that didn't mean much. But maybe that's why his father said them. They weren't comforting or kind, but they felt real in a way that everything else wasn't right now.


"She said I'm supposed to live with you now," Steven said finally, voice cold, almost accusatory.


"Yes." Hector looked at him fully for the first time that day. His gaze wasn't soft but wasn't as harsh as Steven expected. "You'll live with me in New York."


"I don't want to go to New York."


"You're a child, Steven. You don't have a choice." There was no malice in Hector's reply, but the weight of it felt brutal nonetheless. Somewhere, Steven thought he saw a flicker of something human on his father's face—regret, maybe—but it vanished before he could be sure.


Steven turned his face toward the grave again, blinking back the tears he didn't want to shed in front of his father. His mother had been everything, and now, without her, Steven felt like a weak satellite knocked from orbit.


He looked down at his shoes, mud-coated over polished black leather. His mother had bought him this pair months ago—too early, insisting they were for church. But maybe she'd known, the way parents sometimes just know.


"I don't know you," Steven said, his voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with grief.


For once, Hector didn't reply immediately. He stared ahead at the grave, keeping the weight of the rain entirely off them with his perfectly measured umbrella. After a long moment, his voice came quiet, restrained. "You will."



THE REAL PRINCE


 

The Archibald Mansion rose like some kind of Gothic cathedral over the manicured streets of Manhattan. Steven remembered staring up at it the first time and feeling as though the house itself wanted nothing to do with him. It wasn't the kind of place where fingerprints on the glass or dirt-streaked sneakers were allowed.


Steven was staring at the grand stairways and the high ceilings when a wild-haired, wide-grinned 10-year-old bundle of trouble tackled Steven in an exuberant hug before he could even set down his suitcase.


"Gotcha!" Both stumbled on the marble floor. The younger boy was laughing and stood up before him and offered his right hand. "C'mon! I'm Heck."


He accepted his small hand and stood up, and Heck hugged him once more. Heck smelled like peanut butter and mischief, and Steven liked him instantly.


"You'll share my room if mom makes you feel weird," Heck declared in a conspiratorial whisper, dragging Steven up one of the spiral staircases. But Steven froze when a beautiful, elegant woman in a green-tailored dress appeared.


"Heck, darling. Are you done with your homework?" Her voice floated down the hall, soft and welcoming. Helen Sylvia Archibald. Heck's mother. His father's wife. She looked at him and was forced to smile. She nodded to Steven as if to acknowledge his presence. Then, he proceeded to Heck and showered him with kisses. And, Steven suspected, not particularly thrilled about harboring evidence of Hector's indiscretions under her roof.


But for now, there was Heck. And in Heck's company, the sadness in Steven's chest eased, if only a little.




THE UNBREAKABLE BOND


 

Steven and Heck were inseparable after that. At night, when the nannies were asleep, Heck would sneak into Steven's room.


The first nanny quit after a week.


It started with something innocent—Steven teaching Heck how to fold the perfect paper airplane in the drawing room when Sylvia was away. That innocent lesson spiraled fast when Heck, with the unshakeable curiosity of a ten-year-old, decided plain paper wouldn't cut it.


"What if we dip one in pudding?" Heck's hazel eyes gleamed with mischief.


"What?" Steven raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress a grin.


"Pudding," Heck repeated as if Steven hadn't heard him. He darted toward the kitchen and returned triumphantly with two tiny cups of chocolate pudding and spoons. "Imagine it, Stevie. Turbo jets. Chocolate-powered aviation!"


Steven couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. "You're insane," he said, but he was already lining up one of the paper airplanes.


Moments later, chocolate streaked through the air, splattering the dining room walls, the chandelier, and, unfortunately, the nanny's pristine white blouse. She screamed, and the boys dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. Suffice it to say, the Archibald dining room chandelier still bore faint chocolate smudges a month later.


The replacement nanny lasted three days.


By then, Heck and Steven had refined their teamwork. Steven provided the calculated strategy; Heck added flare and chaos. It began with Steven's idea to sketch designs for superhero costumes. But naturally, Heck suggested they make things 'real.'


"Real how?" Steven had asked, a little wary.


Heck beamed, holding up a magenta permanent marker and a tube of sparkle glue.


The late afternoon sunlight turned the Archibald family Rolls-Royce into a blank canvas parked neatly in the driveway. Black leather seats gleamed ominously through the rolled-down window, but neither boy cared. "Archibald-Man and Heck-Boy strike again!" Heck declared, smearing the glue along the door handles.


"More like get-caught-and-grounded-man," Steven muttered, though he joined in anyway, tracing lightning bolts onto the car's glimmering black paint.


Minutes later, the disapproving driver, James, emerged from the garage. "What in God's name––"


Steven didn't miss a beat. "It'll wash off!" he called, already grabbing Heck's arm. "Run!"


And run they did.


They scaled the wrought iron gates like escapees from prison, sprinting toward Central Park while James bellowed after them.


"You're getting too slow, Stevie!" Heck teased, leaping over a park bench as Steven collapsed onto the grass nearby, panting.


"Shut up," Steven wheezed between laughter. "You're lighter than me. Try hauling these legs around for a while."


Heck leaned over him, hands on his knees, catching his breath long enough to poke Steven in the forehead. "Still slower than me."


Steven swatted him away, grinning despite himself.


"Why do you always drag me into your terrible ideas?" Steven asked a moment later, staring up at the canopy of leaves above them.


Heck flopped beside him, his curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. "Because you don't say no."


"That's not an answer."


He shrugged. "Okay, because we have fun."


Steven laughed softly, shaking his head. Somehow, even amidst the madness of living in the shadow of Hector Archibald's empire, they carved out moments like this—and that, Steven realized, was enough.


Even the whispers about their family didn't matter here. The whispers about Steven's mother, about who she wasn't. Heck, he didn't care, and Steven loved him for it.


When whispers turned to jeers at school, Heck was always the first to defend him. "What did you just say?!" Heck once shouted at an older boy, planting his feet like he intended to fight.


The older boy laughed cruelly. "You're not even real brothers—you know that, right? He's just some charity case."


That was it. Steven was already swinging.


Hector's money and connections smoothed over the consequences, but his frustration was unmistakable during the usual family that evening.


"You can't keep doing this, Steven," Hector said, his gold cufflinks catching the light as he gestured. "You're smart. You have a future—"


"No, I don't!" Steven snapped, fists clenched so tight his palms ached. "All I have is a name. And it doesn't mean anything. Not to you. Not to anyone."


Hector froze, his jaw tightening. Then something shifted in his expression—the hardness softened into something closer to…regret.


"Steven," he said quietly, his voice dipping into unfamiliar vulnerability. "You're my son. You're an Archibald. Don't forget it."


But Steven couldn't forget—not when the name came with so much weight.


That night, tired and restless, Steven retreated to his bedroom only to find Heck lounging on his bed, already waiting for him.


"Figured you'd be in a mood," Heck quipped, tossing Steven a half-melted chocolate bar from his secret stash. "Better eat that before …whatever that new nanny's name is, sees this. She hates crumbs in bed."


Steven sat on the edge of the bed, unwrapping the chocolate in silence.


"Hey, Stevie," Heck said, turning serious now. "I don't care what anyone says. Mom can talk about how people are 'different,' but I don't care if your mom is different. You're my brother, okay? Always have been. Always will be."


Steven smiled at him, though the weight in his chest refused to lift. "Yeah, well… you're the real Archibald. I'm just some mistake Dad made."


"No, you're not!" Heck's voice cracked, his face scrunching in frustration. "Don't say that. You're Steven. And you're awesome. And you're my big brother, and I don't care what anyone else thinks."


Something broke in Steven then—not in a bad way, but in the way dam walls give under pressure. He reached over and ruffled Heck's curls roughly. "I love you, bro."


Heck grinned wide, tackling Steven into an unexpected hug. "Love you too, Stevie. Even if you're slow."


For the first time in longer than he could remember, Steven felt—if only for a moment—that maybe love wasn't so far away. Because no matter what the world whispered about them, love was simple with Heck. He was enough.


For both of them.




THE PRINCE GOT HIS CROWN


 

Time didn't so much fly as it evaporated. One day, Steven was twelve, still fumbling with homework and fighting Heck's battles, and then suddenly, he was thirteen. A teenager now, though he wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. Maybe a little taller, a little quieter. Perhaps the weight in his chest, the one no one talked about, was a little heavier.


His birthday started like any other day. A plate of pancakes, Heck loudly singing an off-key "Happy Birthday," and the obligatory half-hug from Sylvia that felt more for appearances than affection. Then, just as Steven tried to sneak out of another family moment to enjoy some time alone, Hector dropped the news.


"You'll be visiting the Archibald Tower today," his father announced over coffee, barely looking up from his platinum phone case.


For the rest of the morning, Steven stewed in confused anticipation. He'd never set foot in Archibald Tower. It was Hector's domain, a world of skyscraper views and serious faces in tailored suits. The thought made him tug at his school blazer well before James's sleek black town car rolled up to the mansion.


The car ride felt endless. "What do you think he wants this time?" Steven murmured to himself once. Even James, stoic behind the wheel, glanced back through the mirror with a flicker of curiosity.


At the lobby, a statuesque woman in an immaculate suit greeted him. "Steven Archibald?" Her accent was clipped, British, like something out of a James Bond film.


"That's me," he stammered. She arched an eyebrow but said nothing, leading him toward the elevator like she didn't have time for anything less than efficiency.


Once inside Hector's office, Steven felt as though he'd stepped into some kind of art exhibit. The expanse of marble floors stretched absurdly far, the walls lined with brooding oil paintings he'd once glimpsed in art history textbooks. The room was cold—not just temperature-wise, but in the way it carried itself. The air, the minimalist design, the faint echo of footsteps—it all screamed 'money' in a way that made Steven itch in his too-new blazer.


He fidgeted endlessly with his jacket, hoping to distract himself from how small he felt against this cathedral-sized office. What did this man—his father—want from him?


The crisp sound of double doors opening startled Steven. Hector strode in with his usual air of gravity, wearing indifference like a second skin. There was no greeting, no 'Happy Birthday.' Instead, Hector handed Steven a sleek black folder.


"I've set up a personal financial account for you," Hector began without preamble. "The details are inside. The card's there, too. You'll need to memorize the codes. The trust fund will allow you to live comfortably for the rest of your life. For now, decisions about it will go through your legal guardian, one from the law firm, but you'll have full control at twenty-one."


Steven blinked down at the folder, his hands awkwardly gripping its edges. Inside was a gleaming card embossed with the Archibald name and an intimidating page of legal jargon that stretched further than his homework essays.


"I… I don't understand. Why would I need this? It's not necessary, Dad." Steven glanced up. "Sylvia gives me an allowance. I'm fine."


Hector rested a hand on the desk, his gold watch glinting under the light. He didn't look angry, just impatient. "You're part of the Archibald family, Steven. This isn't an allowance. This is your future. You and Heck are going to handle the responsibilities that come with that name."


Steven's stomach twisted. "I don't think I'm—" he caught himself and sighed. "This isn't something I wanted."


"It doesn't matter if you want it," Hector said bluntly. His voice softened, just slightly, as he straightened. "This is how it's always been. It's your life. It's the life you were born into, even before you realized it. The sooner you get used to it, the better."


Steven stared at the folder again, his mouth dry. Was this his life? He wasn't even sure he wanted it.


"I won't argue with you. Take it." Hector motioned towards the door, leaving no room for debate.


Steven nodded numbly and stood. He didn't argue, though he wanted to. The truth was, he just wanted to go home. He wanted cake, wanted Heck's bad jokes and stupid riddles. Anything to forget how his father's world already felt too heavy for him.


That night, Steven's request for normal—quiet birthday candles and a slice of overly sweet cake—was granted. Heck joked about him being ancient now, and together, they laughed until their stomachs hurt. Sylvia kept her smile small, polite. Hector didn't even pretend to smile, but Steven wasn't surprised.


After dinner, when Steven exited the shower, Heck was waiting at the edge of his bed, flipping idly through a comic book.


"You look like a ghost," Heck said offhandedly, setting the comic down. "Did you stay up all night thinking of how old you are now?"


Steven sighed and covered his face with his pillow. "Shut up."


Heck grinned knowingly. "But seriously... I heard about the trust fund thing. You know, fancy money. Congrats or whatever."


Steven groaned louder. "I don't want it, Heck."


Heck shrugged, hopping onto the bed and jostling Steven with his knee. "Then give it to me!"


Steven peeked from under the pillow. "You're insufferable."


"Thanks, I try," Heck said with a grin just too big for his face. Then, softer, "Hey. I know it's weird. But… it's kinda cool, Stevie. You're important. You're my big brother, for real, even if you don't wanna play money games or whatever Dad thinks we need to do."


Steven looked at him for a long moment. "You really think that?"


Heck punched his arm lightly. "I know that."


Steven couldn't help but smile faintly. Whatever happened, at least Heck was still his constant in the chaos. And for now, it was enough.


But the peace didn't last long.


Just past midnight, Steven woke up craving one more slice of cake. He tiptoed down the grand staircase, his socks muffling each step. But as he neared the kitchen, voices broke through the marble stillness.


"He doesn't belong here, Hector!" Sylvia. Her voice was sharp, louder than he'd ever heard.


Steven froze midstep, holding his breath. The sound came from the study—the door was cracked, just enough for him to hear.


"For God's sake, Sylvia, he's a child!" Hector's voice was quieter but no less firm.


"A child who reminds me every day of what you did to me!" Sylvia's tone cracked. "You think I don't try? I do. I try to love him like Heck does, like you do. But I can't. I just… can't."


Steven's chest contracted. Something hot and solid lodged itself in his throat, and his feet refused to move. The cake didn't matter anymore.


"It's been thirteen years, Sylvia," Hector replied evenly. "Steven isn't going anywhere. He's part of this family—whether you like it or not."


"You don't understand," Sylvia snapped, her voice breaking once more. "Every time I look at him, I see it. I see her. That woman. The one who nearly ruined everything."


"Enough," Hector said, though his tone lacked heat. "It's late. This argument is pointless. Steven is staying."


Sylvia didn't respond, at least not that Steven could hear.


Steven didn't wait to hear more.


Tears stung in Steven's eyes, but he didn't cry. Not here. Instead, he retreated the way he came, the marble floors colder than he remembered against his socks.


When he slipped back into his bed, there was no comfort in the blankets draped over him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Sylvia's words echoed endlessly, looping in his head, chiseling away at every fragile truth he thought he'd built.


That night, he stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, the weight of her words pressing down on his chest like an anchor. He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in weeks, maybe months. But that hollow space in his chest grew larger, swallowing everything inside him.


Sylvia couldn't see him without seeing betrayal. Being here hurt her. Being here hurt him.


It was time to go.




A NEW CHAPTER


 

Steven didn't leave a note. Didn't bother collecting much. Left the black folder that obviously about loads of money. Just a backpack with some clothes, a jar of peanut butter he stole from the kitchen, and the $53 he'd been saving from birthday cards and loose change. Heck would find ways to carry on without him; maybe it would be better this way. He rationalized.


The house was unnervingly silent that morning. The kind of quiet crept in when Hector was locked in his office or gone to work. Sylvia was still asleep, her room dark behind closed doors. Heck was probably tangled in his blankets, snoring softly. Steven hesitated in the hallway outside his brother's door, his hand lingering on the knob. Heck was the only reason he'd stayed this long.


But this wasn't a life Steven wanted for him. Sometimes, he imagined Heck without the shadow of Sylvia's resentment and heartbreak over Hector's betrayal, without the whispers that danced around their home like restless ghosts. But he wanted his brother to have a peaceful life, free from ghosts of the past. Silence wasn't safety; it was an indifferent nothingness that made everything feel heavier. That kind of peace wasn't possible with Steven around.


He swallowed the lump in his throat and stepped out the front door. The latch clicked shut behind him, not loud but sharp, as if cutting him off from everything he'd known.


He walked with weighted steps all the way to the subway, riding it to the 42nd Street-Port Authority Bus Terminal, his stomach turning with every stop. The terminal was chaotic, a cacophony of announcements, feet shuffling, and the occasional burst of laughter from strangers who'd found temporary solace in the chaos. Steven stared at the ticket prices displayed on digital boards, his heart sinking. California was impossibly far. Bus fare would drain nearly all his money, leaving nothing for food or shelter.


He had to stretch what little he had.


Realizing the futility of his initial plan, Steven left the terminal, pushing past the crowds until he reached the highway. The world beyond stretched out like a wound—a jagged, endless path beckoning him toward something new, something not here. He didn't really know where he was going. Just away.


Cars roared past him in waves. Truck drivers glanced his way but rarely slowed; mothers pulled their children closer as they drove by, their faces tight with discomfort. Occasionally, someone would stop—mostly older men with good intentions or tired eyes—but they could only take him a little farther along the road before dropping him off with apologies.


Two nights passed like this. Steven walked until his feet throbbed and the gravel bit through his thin sneakers. He was hungry. He was scared –– more than he could admit. He'd sleep on patches of grass near the road, shivering under the stars, the vastness of the night sky pressing down on him. Every sound—every coyote's distant howl or crackle of leaves—sharpened his fear just enough to keep him awake.


On the third day, luck finally arrived in the form of an old black station wagon. Its headlights cut through the dusty haze of the highway as it slowed to a stop beside him. Rust clawed at its fenders like ivy on brick.


The driver leaned across the passenger seat, squinting into the sun. He was a man in his late forties, dressed simply in a white shirt and a Roman collar. A priest.


"You've been out here too long, son," the man said. His voice was calm and steady, with a hint of warmth. "Where are you heading?"


Steven hesitated. His fingers tightened around the strap of his worn backpack. "Anywhere," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Just… away from stuff."


The man studied him for a moment, his face unreadable but not unkind. "I'm Father Raul. And you are?"


"Chris," Steven said quickly. The name felt strange in his mouth but also freeing. He wasn't Steven Archibald anymore. He was Chris. Chris didn't have to carry the weight of family names or legacies. Chris could just be a boy on the run.


Father Raul didn't press him for more. Instead, he leaned back and motioned toward the passenger seat. "Hop in. I'll take you as far as the city limits."


The priest took a glance at the boy. "There's a turkey sandwich in the basket at the back and some water. I know you're hungry if not famish. It's going to be a long ride to California."


Steven fished for the basket and ate as fast as he could. He forgot about food for days and now realized how hungry he was. The ride was mostly quiet, but the silence was different—softer somehow, filled with only the hum of the engine and the occasional radio static. Steven sat up straight, his knees pinned together, one hand gripping the seatbelt. He could feel the priest's occasional glances, though Raul said nothing for most of the long, winding drive.


Forty hours later, in between short stops to catch some sleep and eat, they arrived in an unremarkable residential, Goldenwest – in Huntington Beach. Father Raul turned to Steven as they parked outside a modest gray building with a steeple.


"You can stay here for a while," Raul said. His tone wasn't demanding, yet Steven felt declining would shatter something fragile between them. He needed a safe place to crash …at least for the night. "Just until you figure things out."


The attic room was small, tucked above the church like some forgotten relic. The twin bed creaked under Steven's weight as he set his bag down, and the air smelled faintly of wood smoke, mothballs, and damp paper. A single window, high above, filtered in narrow streams of golden sunlight skewed with dust. It wasn't much. But it was safe.


Father Raul didn't ask for explanations, though Steven gave him one anyway. It wasn't the whole truth, but that wasn't important. He told the priest his mother was gone, and his father was cruel. He painted a picture of cold indifference, clothes without warmth, and mansions without love. The bruises he described weren't real, but the emptiness they symbolized was. It was enough to sound like truth, enough for Steven to believe it himself.


"Good night, Chris. Don't forget to pray," Father Raul touched his head as if blessing him. For that, Steven was grateful. Tonight, it felt like a beginning. He was Christ Smith from then on.


The following day, he was facing the priest.


"What's your plan, Chris?


"I don't have anywhere to go, Father," he replied, twisting his fingers –– a habit he acquired when he has anxiety or fear.


"I couldn't let you out in there. But you know that I am under obligation to turn you over to child protection and social service," the priest explained.


"Father, please," he begged. The thought of sending him back to New York wanted to bold on his seat and leave.


Father Raul sighed; this kid is too broken, he thought. After a long pause, "You can stay as long as you like, until you figure out what to do. But I expect you to help me around. Run some errands for the parishioners, collect the prayer books from the pews…. anything you can do."


"I can do those, Father," he said eagerly. Glad he was thousands of miles away from his father.



MUSIC & SURFING


 

Father Raul's expectations were simple—go. to. school. No excuses. And Steven tried. He slipped into the routines of this new life, blending in enough to survive, though the weight of who he was—who he'd been—never fully disappeared.


Within the church and home, it was bearable. But school is another thing. Bullies exist whether you're in private or public school. The kids, while they've no match to his build, they came in flock. He was always outnumbered. He went home with a black eye or a new bruise he tried to hide. Now, no Archibald name to protect him from the harsh teachers. He was always in detention.


Steven thought of Heck. How is he doing now? Are the gangs in school still bullying him? "You have to toughen, Heck. The outside world is far different from home," he said in the air as if he was expecting it to carry the message to Heck.


After the service, Raul found Steven in the choir loft one Sunday, staring at a row of dusty guitars.


"You play?" the priest asked, startling Steven from his wandering thoughts.


"No," Steven admitted, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets. His gaze flicked back toward the guitars. "I just… I don't know. I was curious."


Raul nodded slowly, walking to the row and picking up an old acoustic with scuffed edges and loose strings. He held it out to Steven.


"It's yours," Raul said simply.


Steven hesitated before taking it, his hands tentative on the worn wood. "Why are you giving this to me?"


"Because sometimes," Raul said, his voice steady, "music can say what words can't. Use it well."


Steven smiled for the first time in months that he stayed in Father Raul's fold, if only faintly. Maybe Chris—the boy he'd chosen to become—could find something here. Maybe, for the first time, running didn't feel like drowning.


Henry, a parishioner with a kind smile and worn fingertips, showed him the basics—how to hold a chord, how to keep time, how to scrape emotion out of six strings when the heart couldn't bear to hold onto it. Within a year, Steven was playing along with the choir, a kind of small-town, sacred rockstar. It was a new identity—a boy with songs instead of sorrow. A name without a history.


Huntington Beach had been his reprieve. When school became nothing but white noise of textbooks, pitying glances, and the usual brawl with the older kids, he'd take the lone walk to the water. Skateboard tucked under one arm, his guitar slung across his back, he spent his days with salt on his lips and sand in his clothes, carving out a corner of joy in an ocean that seemed to have room for him.


There were never short of girls showing interest in him. At some point, he received indecent proposals from men and older women– those bible-toting churchgoers. The Archibald German blood was taking its root. He was good-looking, and his body developed with physical work in the church, swimming and surfing, and regular yoga and Tai Chi, which Father Raul taught him. Those didn't interest him. His focus was on music, and he was secretly writing songs.


And then there was Olivia. Six years older, unapologetic in her confidence. She wasn't the shy new girl at church; she was fire-cutting through the smoldering ash of people whispering prayers. The moment she entered that sun-dappled nave, late and breathless, every gaze had flicked toward her like a lighthouse following a ship.


Steven, standing next to Father Raul, had tried not to stare. "Sorry," she mouthed toward the altar, but her eyes caught him, and lingered a second too long. It wasn't calculated; it was just what happened when someone saw you before you could decide who you were pretending to be.


She was a glowing mix of golden hair and an ocean's pull, leaving him utterly dumbstruck, too tongue-tied for weeks until she finally coaxed a hesitant "hello" out of him. He abandoned music for the surfing lessons she swore were crucial. She called him "kid," a nickname that stung more than he'd admit, yet she always laughed as he fumbled to haul her board ashore after wiping out five times in a row. Somehow, Olivia became the distraction Steven needed, easing the weight of Heck from his mind. He tried to leave home behind, burying the memories, though fragments of news about Heck still surfaced—his accident, his shift into a passion for fast cars.


Months of flirting led to a quick fuck in the attic. It was Steven's first. Maybe she was his first love. Maybe not. It was hard to say. Love had always felt like a foreign language. Out of reach. Those fragments of life—Raul's attic. Huntington's seafoam buzz. Olivia's sunlight laughs—they were the puzzle pieces he stitched into a self-made boy. Then, one day, she was gone.


After saying his quiet goodbye to Father Raul, Steven walked away from the only stable thing he'd known since running. Downtown LA greeted him with its chaotic beauty—the shimmering lights, the hum of life that never truly stopped. Huntington had nothing left for him. This, at least, was something new.




SEX, DRUGS, AND ROCK AND ROLL


 



He fell into life with Danny, a musician with too many stories and even more regrets. Danny was older—almost twice Steven's age—but there was something about his easygoing nature, his ability to carve out moments of joy even in dingy bars, that made Steven stick around. Danny got him gigs. Nothing glamorous—just enough to keep him eating or pay for a cheap beer here and there.


Life with Danny was a whirlwind, nothing like the structured, almost suffocating existence under Father Raul’s roof. There were no curfews, no rules to follow—just a reckless kind of freedom that left boundaries scattered in the dust. Anything was fair game. Sex came easy, too easy. Girls seemed to fall into his lap, no strings, no cost. Just raw, fleeting moments of want.


Drugs? He gave them a shot, dipping his toes into the haze just enough to feel the edge without tumbling over. Danny had shown him the ropes—how to indulge but never drown, how to stay in control when everything around him spun. For a while, it worked. The high filled the hollow spaces. But over time, the thrill dulled. The detachment felt heavier. And one day, without ceremony, he walked away from it all—the drugs, the chaos, the half-smiles masking deeper voids.


Steven eventually claimed his first name again, letting "Chris" fade into memory. But Archibald? That was a weight he couldn't bear. He stripped it away, leaving it somewhere back on a highway he barely remembered traveling.


Years later, he felt like he'd carved out some semblance of himself, even if it felt flimsy. The glow of a cigarette between his fingertips was his compass tonight as he weaved through a narrow alleyway, the stale smell of spilled beer and grease mingling with the city's energy. A grown man. Or close enough.


He was mid-drag when his phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting whatever illusion of peace he'd managed to scrounge. He frowned, pulling it out and staring at the screen. Same number.


"God, he didn't know when to stop," he muttered, exhaling sharply before silencing the call. He stared at the device for a moment longer, his jaw tightening, before slamming it to the ground under his boot. The screen cracked with a satisfying crunch, and he scooped up the broken pieces and tossed them into the nearest dumpster. Dusting his hands off, he shook his head and lit another cigarette. Problem solved.


Or so he thought.





HECK


 



The instant he turned onto the dimly lit corner of the alley, the black SUV slid silently to a stop beside him. The sleekness and the two men stepping out in tailored suits sent a shiver of unease down his spine. These weren't your every day bar brawlers or street hustlers.


"Steven Archibald?" The taller man spoke first as the other flanked him. His badge caught the light, glinting in Steven's direction. "Detective Murphy, DEA."


The cigarette froze halfway to Steven's lips. "You've got the wrong guy," he said, voice flat but edged with uncertainty. "I'm not... whoever you're looking for," he replied. Confused. What the heck did I just do? Did he say Archibald? He thought.



Murphy gave him a look that could cut through steel. The other man stepped forward, his presence alone enough to make Steven tense. "We need you to come with us." His tone offered no room for argument.


He knew he occasionally did drugs and regular weed, but who hasn't, in these days and era? But he got to admit; this scared the shit out of him. He got to call someone, but then he remembered, he just ditched his phone a few blocks away.


Panic flickered beneath Steven's practiced calm. He ran through a quick inventory in his mind—weed, sure, the occasional mistake, but nothing that warranted suits, SUVs, or badges. "Look, I don't know what you think I've done—"


"Get in the car," the second man said, firm but not aggressive.


Steven hesitated—just for a moment—before realizing there wasn't a real choice here. He crushed his cigarette on the pavement, inhaled slowly, and climbed into the back of the SUV. The scent of leather and faint cologne filled the space, suffocating and deliberate. His mind raced.


The drive was long, twisting, and silent. LA's familiar hum disappeared into the background as they turned toward isolated industrial streets. The SUV finally eased into an aging warehouse, the heavy metal doors groaning as they slid open.


The building felt cold inside—sharp fluorescent lights bouncing off concrete and metal. Steven felt the weight of the situation as he was led to a room. Small, sterile, nearly claustrophobic. A metal table and chair waited for him, along with a one-way mirror and more silence than he could stand.


He sat, slumped but simmering, anxiety thrumming underneath his skin. Minutes dragged. His leg bounced under the table until the door finally creaked open.


The moment he saw who entered, Steven's blood chilled.


Hector Archibald III stood framed in the doorway, impeccably dressed as always. The pinstriped suit fit him perfectly, his salt-and-pepper hair meticulously combed. The years had added weight to his presence but done little to chip away at his imposing aura.


"Is this really necessary?" Steven's voice was sharp, carrying 20 years of loathing. "You couldn't just send another condescending voicemail?"


"If you'd answered the first five," Hector said evenly, "we wouldn't have to resort to this."


Steven snorted, leaning back in the chair, his arms crossed. "What do you want, Hector? And don't bother feeding me whatever fatherly concern crap you think I'll believe. How'd you find me?" He had a lot of questions in his mind.


"I knew where you were from day one," Hector said, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact.


Steven blinked, his expression twisting. "What are you talking about?"


"You think Father Raul found you by accident?" The question cut through the space like a blade.


Steven's mind was running full-back. Now he knew why Father Raul never reported him to the child protection service.


Hector stepped closer, resting his hands on the back of the empty chair across from Steven. "Since the moment you ran. It was impossible to drag you back, so I ensured someone looked after you."


Steven's jaw clenched. "You sent Father Raul to keep tabs on me? How much did all those cost you? Let me guess…. sizable donation." He smirked.


"Raul genuinely cared for you. I simply ensured he had the resources to do so." Hector's calm explanation only added fuel to Steven's anger.


"But I left the church years ago… how'd you…" then it dawned on him. "Yeah, Danny."


His father nodded.


"So what's Danny's story?"


"Security." Hector didn't flinch. "Someone I trusted."


"Yeah..." that's all he could figure out to say.


Steven pushed back in his seat. "You can't just... manipulate your way into everyone's lives and call it protection!"


"I didn't come here to argue," Hector said. His voice softened, and for the first time, something human flickered.


Steven stilled. "Heck?"


"Your brother needs you." His voice is defeated. Before Steven could ask more questions, Hector continued. "There's been an accident," Hector admitted, his mask slipping further. "A deliberate one. Someone tried to kill him. He's in critical condition. He's in bad shape, and he needed you. Sylvia needed you."


"Who the fuck messes up with him?" Steven asked. His hatred of his father was transferred to who ever hurt his brother.


"We'll handle that," Hector said. "But for now, the doctors need you. He's at the bottom of the transplant list, and you're the best match."


Steven's head spun. "Christ."


"I'm not here to force you," Hector said, his voice almost quiet now. "But Sylvia needs you. Heck needs you."


The anger drained from Steven's face, replaced with something raw, something unwilling to be named. After a long pause, he stood.


"But not for you," Steven said, the words sharp and cold. "This is for them. Not you."


Hector nodded, understanding. "Understood."




THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNS


 

Steven's gaze lingered on the mirror, his reflection clouded by the tension curling in his chest. Trusting his father wasn't an option—maybe it never had been. But Heck? Heck was different. Heck, who had taught him how to throw a football in the backyard, who always shared quiet jokes to soften the worst days. Heck, who made him feel wanted, even in a world that often told him otherwise. The years and the distance hadn't touched that. Not one bit. And as much as he wanted to run, to leave the shadows of his past behind, Heck needed him now. For that, Steven would return to life he left behind.


Steven stood there, letting the weight of the moment press down on him. The room felt smaller, the sterile chill seeping into his skin. Beyond the glass, Heck looked like a shadow of himself, a fragile shell of the brother who had once brimmed with life. That laugh—it had carried them through so many dark days. Now, there was only silence. The faint hum of machines and the rhythmic beeps from monitors remained cruel reminders of how precarious this moment was.


A woman stood near the glass, her back to him, her frame subtly trembling. Her forehead rested lightly against the pane as if she were willing to hold it together. Her hands cradled her belly, slow movements betraying the tension she was likely trying to hide. Steven noticed her white dress, how it seemed a little too perfect for a grim setting. The emerald ring she absently twisted on her finger caught the harsh fluorescent light, glinting briefly. He wasn't sure who she was exactly, but in the confines of this moment, she became another part of the overwhelming fog.


He pulled his gaze from her, turning it toward Heck. His brother lay there, motionless but for the faint rise and fall of his chest. A tangle of wires snaked around him, hooked to the machines that seemed to be doing the work his body could no longer manage on its own. Steven's chest tightened, and he stepped closer to the glass.


"This isn't the reunion I imagined, Heck," he whispered, his breath fogging the glass briefly. His reflection stared back at him, haggard and unrecognizable as the boy his brother once idolized. "You hung in there long enough to make me come back, huh?"


The woman turned slightly at his presence and glanced at him over her shoulder. For a moment, their eyes met—those hazel doe-eyes ––a moment painted in quiet curiosity, soaked in the shared grief of strangers caught in the same storm. She didn't say anything, only offered a faint, acknowledging nod. Steven returned it, but neither moved to break the silence further.


Steven sauntered toward the glass window. "He's yours?" he asked, his voice low yet somehow soft.


"Yes," she said softly, twisting the emerald ring around her finger. "He's my fiancé."


Steven nodded, but his gaze never left the glass window. "And you—are you waiting for someone?" she asked cautiously, almost out of instinct.


His lips parted as though he might answer, but he didn't. He just nodded faintly, his gaze distant. Behind him, the quiet hum of the hallway was interrupted by the sharp click of heels against the sterile tile. Turning his head, Steven saw Sylvia approaching, her movement steady but clearly hurried. Her black dress clung neatly to her, her poise as effortless as he remembered it. But her face—her face carried all the pain she tried to mask. Hector followed just a step behind her, his presence cutting into the air like a blade.


"Steven." Sylvia's voice broke the quiet, soft, and trembling. Her hands reached for him instinctively, yet she paused as though unsure if she had the right to do it. After a moment, she placed a delicate hand on his arm. "You came."


Steven's eyes softened as they locked with hers. "Of course, I came," he answered simply. His words carried no sting, only a thin layer of restraint. It wasn't her he had an issue with, and she knew that. Her lips parted as though to say something more, but her fingers gripped his sleeve gently instead. Her gratitude sat in the tear-filled gaze she gave him.


Sylvia stepped closer to the glass, standing beside Steven. "He's fighting," she said quietly, her voice coated with reverence and disbelief. "The nurses keep telling me it's... remarkable he's even managed this long. But..." Her voice faltered, breaking under the weight of what she couldn't bear to finish.


"How bad is it?" Steven asked, cutting through the tension before she unraveled completely.


Sylvia took in a breath, visibly steadying herself before answering. "It was deliberate, Steven," she said, her voice soft yet tinged with anger. "They said it wasn't an accident. Someone meant for it to happen. But... but all that matters now is that we keep him alive."


Steven's jaw tightened at her words, the familiar grip of rage clawing at his chest. "And the police?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer would do little to ease him.


"They're... involved," Hector interjected smoothly, his voice calm and composed as always. "But our priority is here. Now."


Steven turned slightly, his gaze meeting his father's. There was no hostility in his eyes this time, just exhaustion. "You sure about that?" He asked, his voice low. "You've spent years prioritizing everything but us."


Hector opened his mouth as if to retaliate but stopped. Instead, he nodded, his face unreadable but solemn. "This isn't the time to dredge up old battles, Steven," he said evenly. "Whatever I've done—or failed to do—it doesn't matter now. Only Heck does."


Steven took in a slow, shallow breath, then turned his attention back to the glass. His shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of it all growing heavier. "Nobody deserves what he's been through," Steven murmured. "Not him."


Sylvia placed her hand lightly on Steven's again. "He needed you," she said softly.


He didn't respond immediately, only staring at the frail figure beyond the window. After what felt like an eternity, he straightened and squared his shoulders. "Well," he said finally, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. "I'm here now."


It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't closure. But standing in that hallway, watching his brother cling to life while the world outside carried on, Steven understood there were some battles you simply couldn't walk away from.




SARA


 

Steven had always thought of hospital hallways as endless, their fluorescent lights stretching ahead like an interrogation of every choice he'd made up to that point. Today was no different. The air felt too cold, sterile in a way no warmth could touch. He had tried to joke earlier and keep the weight off Sara's shoulders, but now, as the final moments crept closer, even jokes felt heavy.


The room blurred slightly at the edges—not because of the fatigue, though that clung to him, too. His focus remained sharp, locked somewhere just past the point of certainty. He was the perfect match for Heck's kidney and liver; the doctor said it quickly, as if the mechanics of saving someone could strip away the emotional burden that came with it.


His hand ran over the cold armrest of the gurney as Sara's voice somehow broke through the sharp noise of the room.


"Steven..." Sara said softly, her voice trembling under the weight of things unsaid. Her hands, shaking slightly, rested protectively on her growing belly. "I—I just wanted to..."


"Say, 'Good luck, we're harvesting your organs?'" he interrupted playfully, though his voice cracked slightly under the joke's thin surface. "Or maybe, 'Break a leg,'" Steven added with the most pathetic attempt at levity. He forced a small grin.


Sara blinked, and tears escaped against her will. She stifled a laugh beneath the ache blooming just behind her ribs. "God, you're ridiculous."


"That's one word for it," he said with a faint shrug. Then his smile fell slightly, and when he looked at her again, something unguarded slipped through. "Sara, this isn't about me. It's about Heck. He's got too many people waiting for him to fall asleep reading bedtime stories someday... including your little one."


Her eyes darted briefly to her belly, her fingers instinctively brushing over the soft fabric of her dress. When she looked back up at him, those hazel eyes were filled with something raw. "I almost lost him twice, Steven. First, because I walked away—I was chasing something. Something smaller than what I already had. Then there was Sophie, and I thought I'd put it all back together after that. But this..." her voice cracked, and her fingers balled into fists. "This, I can't fix. I can't hold it together if this happens."


Steven swallowed hard, but his voice, when it came, felt steady, purposeful. "Hey, look at me," he said, reaching out. Sara froze at his touch but didn't pull away. "We're not going to lose him. Not like this."


Her breath hitched slightly, and she blinked away new tears. "I don't know why you're doing this... why you came. He didn't talk about you much. I didn't even know you existed, and now we're asking for your whole world."



Steven exhaled, slow and deliberate. "It's been 20 years," he finally admitted, his voice quiet yet steady. "We never reconnected. I chose that. I didn't want to intrude on their lives... didn't want to ruin their family."


"You are his family, too," Sara said, not looking at him. My voice felt small but firm.


Steven held her gaze, every muscle in his chest pulling taut with the truth he'd tried to ignore for so long. Finally, after a quiet moment, he broke the silence. "When are you due?" he asked, his voice softer, gentler now.


"In two weeks," Sara replied, her hands dropping back to her belly, protective and instinctual.


"Well," he said with a shift of his voice, now layered with faint warmth. "You're definitely going to need some rest before then."


Sara's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "I just want his father to be here to meet him. That's all I want."


Steven nodded, his gaze distant for a moment. "You'll have that," he said quietly. Then, he smirked faintly, though sadness flickered in his eyes. "I'm sure he'll be handsome like Heck. And maybe, if you're lucky... not such a handful."


"Or stubborn like his uncle Steven," she teased, trying to pull the moment into something lighter.


He chuckled lightly, the sound reverberating against some corner of the sterile room. "Poor kid," he said, shaking his head.


Then, silence.


She reached out, this time deliberately, her hand brushing his lightly before holding it. "I can't thank you for this; I'll never be able to. But... thank you anyway. For saving him. For giving him another chance."


Steven didn't look away. "You won't have to thank me. Ever. This is just what you do for the people you love... your family."


Their moment broke as the nurse entered, gently announcing it was time. Sara backed away, but she cast one last glance over her shoulder as she turned. "See you later, Steven," she whispered.


He watched her go, then closed his eyes briefly, his chest swelling with steady breaths as they moved the gurney toward the operating room. Voices blurred into tonal sounds—doctors, nurses, soft murmurs blending into static noise. Then came the harsh brightness of the surgical lights, the cold metal of the room keeping its arms open, as though to cradle every broken piece.


Ahead of him, Steven caught one last glimpse of Heck through the hallway window. He was still there, pale but alive. And that? That was enough.


"Hang in there, buddy," Steven whispered as they pushed him through the door. "We'll get you out of the woods."


A masked doctor leaned forward, clipboard in hand. "Steven, we're going to count backward now. Ten..."


"Sure," Steven answered. He shut his eyes.


"Nine..." The countdown rolled forward, but he wasn't there anymore. Instead, he saw her again somewhere in his mind—his mother. She was smiling, faint and reassuring, from her kitchen doorway, decades ago.


"You're a true prince," she'd said back then.


"Eight..." Steven felt tears burning beneath his eyelids. No, Mom, he thought, his heart splitting as the final grip of sleep came to take him.


"Seven… I'm saving the prince…mom."


And everything around him went silent.



 


NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR


Dear Readers,


Within the pages of my stories lives a universe—a breathing, shifting realm where my characters exist beyond the borders of a single novel or short story. These characters, with all their joys and struggles, often wander across my works. They meet others, their threads tangling and weaving, pulling you into new, uncharted places.

 

The Runaway Prince marks one such waypoint on this shared journey. It bridges the world of Gnight, Sara / 'Night, and Heck—a story I co-authored with Mike Dee—and the task now at hand: writing its sequel, I Love You Sunday Sunset. By sharing The Runaway Prince with you, I hope to spare you the interruptions of lengthy flashbacks in the sequel, while also giving space to a character I believe deserves your full attention.

 

Steven. One of the most challenging characters I’ve written. Why? Because when I set out to write him, I knew next to nothing about the world of rock and roll. Then, as if the universe was giving me a nudge, I met Kowboy Santos—a true legacy in Pinoy rock, and the son of the legendary Filipino rockstar Sampaguita. Kowboy was generous enough to share his world with me, walking me through the ins and outs of a rockstar’s life. The struggles. The grit. The parts no one wants to romanticize. His insights, combined with the music of Ben Harper, shaped Steven’s story—and, ultimately, Steven himself.

 

This isn’t a love story—not the kind you might expect or imagine, anyway. It dives into something deeper. The kind of love that exists between two brothers. A love that’s raw, unshakable, and sometimes impossibly heavy. But also beautiful. Always beautiful.

 

Now, as I find myself once again knee-deep in the rewriting process for the sequel, I offer The Runaway Prince to you. A moment to pause. To wander. Maybe even connect. I hope you’ll find something here that stays with you.



With gratitude,


Justine




 

Gnight, Sara / 'Night, Heck is now available on Kindle and paperback.




Read the first 3  chapters of the novel for free







 

 



Justine Castellon is a brand strategist with an innate ability to weave compelling narratives. She seamlessly blends her professional insight with her passion for literature. She writes about her journey as a writer in between poetry and short stories. She is the author of three novels –– Four Seasons, The Last Snowfall, and Gnight Sara / 'Night Heck.






 



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