Sugar, Secrets and Upheaval

Chapter 46 - Letter

I woke up with the remnants of a deeply satisfying, albeit brutal, night clinging to my skin and clouding my thoughts. Fuck him. The memory of his possessive touch, the raw intensity of our connection, sent a shiver down my spine despite the lingering ache in my muscles. It had been… amazing. Insanely so. So good, it had knocked me unconscious. A disturbing thought wormed its way into my mind: did I subconsciously provoke his more dominant side, push him to the edge, so that even my pleas for him to stop would be ignored, ensuring that mind-numbing pleasure?The question was unsettling, but the pull to find him was stronger. I threw back the covers and practically leaped from my bed, a desperate urgency propelling me through the silent penthouse in search of Levi. I found him in the living area, his back to me, engaged in a hushed but clearly tense conversation with Annie. He held a thick envelope in his hand. Their voices were low and muffled, but the underlying friction was palpable.

"... This may distress him more. Is it truly necessary to give it to him right now, Annie?"

Annie's reply, though equally hushed, was firm. "Sir, with all due respect, I think this is a matter we should not be involved in. He needs to know."

Know what? My heart began to pound with a sudden, unwelcome premonition.

"What are you talking about?" The question burst from my lips, sharper and more demanding than intended. Both Levi and Annie turned towards me instantly, their hushed argument abruptly cut short.

"Good morning, Raphael," Levi said, his voice carefully neutral, but the stiffness in his posture and the way his eyes flickered towards the envelope in his hand betrayed his calm facade. He took a slow, deliberate breath, as if bracing himself. "A letter from your… family arrived. Possibly, they reached out because of your injury."

My blood ran cold. My family. It had been years. Years of silence, a deliberate severing of ties. The thought of them reaching out now...

I staggered the thought of it. Years. Years of carefully cultivated solitude, a necessary shield against their disapproval, their blatant, hurtful homophobia. I had painstakingly built a life for myself, a world where their judgment couldn't touch me. And now, after all this time, they resurfaced, their interest piqued only by my vulnerability, by an accident that had left me dependent, even if temporarily.

Levi moved quickly, gently guiding me to sit on the plush couch. As I sank into the cushions, Annie silently appeared, pressing a cool glass of water into my trembling hand.

"It is alright, Raphael," Levi murmured, his voice a low, calming counterpoint to the turmoil within me. His hand moved to my back, the rhythmic rub a small, grounding gesture. "You do not have to open it, or respond to it. If they are in need of something, I will take care of it for you."

"How… did they find me, my address…" The question tumbled out, a fresh wave of unease washing over me.

"You do not have to worry over it," Levi reassured me, his hand still a steady presence on my back. "They likely saw you on television. Your… incident garnered some media attention. It's possible some loose-mouthed press attempted to create a scoop by reaching out to your family and providing my company's post office box as a point of contact."

He placed his cool hand on the crown of my head. "Now, dear," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing balm. "Calm down. They do not have any power over you. You are safe here, and I will not allow them to cause you any distress."

Yet, beneath that soothing surface, a tremor of something akin to fear ran through me. My parents were undoubtedly assholes, their disapproval a constant shadow in my past. But this was Levi we were talking about. His protectiveness, while often welcome, had a sharp, dangerous edge. The memory of the aftermath of my last serious injury flashed through my mind – the smoldering ruins of that mansion, a testament to his terrifying capacity for retribution. Their homophobia was one thing; incurring Levi's wrath on my behalf was an entirely different, and potentially far more destructive, prospect.

A knot of apprehension tightened in my chest. "Levi…" I began, my voice a little shaky. "You calm down, and do not engage. At all. I will think about it, about reading it or just throwing it straight into the bin."

Their prejudice was my burden to bear, not an excuse for his explosive tendencies.

His hand remained gently resting on the top of my head for a moment longer, a silent reassurance. Then, he withdrew it slowly, his blue eyes meeting mine with a steady, unwavering gaze. "Understood, Raphael," he said, his voice calm and even. "My priority is your well-being. Your decision regarding the letter is final."

There was a quiet authority in his tone, a clear indication that he would respect my wishes. It was a relief, a tangible easing of the tension that had gripped me. Perhaps I had underestimated his capacity for restraint, his willingness to prioritize my autonomy.

"I do wish I could stay here with you longer, Raphael," Levi said, his gaze softening slightly, "but as you know, I am rather busy with certain… matters." He offered a small, almost apologetic inclination of his head. "Please, take this time to rest. Allow your body to recover fully."

"Yeah…" I murmured, a small, tired smile gracing my lips. "Have a good day. And no being a tyrannical, god-complexed shadow lurking in the corners, alright?"

Levi's lips twitched, a hint of a smile playing on them. "Oh, Pulla," he replied, his tone dry. "My day will hardly be filled with such… theatrical pursuits. It is simply company affairs that require my attention today. Utterly devoid of any dramatic flair, I assure you." He gave a small, almost formal nod before turning to leave, Annie silently following in his wake. As the door closed behind them, a heavy silence settled over the penthouse, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the unopened letter.

To open it or not?

Curiosity gnawed at me, a relentless itch to know what they had to say after all this time. Seven years. What could possibly compel them to reach out now?

Yet, the instinct for self-preservation screamed a warning. I knew, deep down, that opening that letter was an invitation to pain. Their words, even after all this time, had the power to wound, to reopen scars I had fought so hard to heal. My heart felt fragile, still recovering from the emotional battering of the past. Could I risk shattering it again, all for the sake of morbid curiosity?

The envelope lay on the coffee table, a stark white rectangle holding the potential for both answers and agony. My gaze was drawn to it, a morbid fascination warring with a deep-seated fear. It had been seven years. Had they changed? Was there a genuine reason for their contact? Or was it merely a selfish attempt to intrude, to disrupt the fragile peace I had finally found? The longer I stared, the more the curiosity threatened to overwhelm the fear. The need to know, however painful, was a powerful lure.

I opened it.

Seven years. Seven years of silence and this was it?

"Utter garbage," I muttered under my breath, the crisp paper of the letter suddenly feeling like something vile and unclean in my hands. The casual dismissal of Ascaria, the blatant assertion of Cyrusian superiority, the thinly veiled threats of divine retribution – it was all there, the same old toxic brew they had been peddling for years.

A hollow ache spread through my chest, a familiar emptiness that whispered of years spent yearning for an acceptance that would never come. Despite the life I had created, their words had the power to strip it all away, leaving me feeling like that scared, lonely boy once more, trapped between their expectations and my own truth.

Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging, blurring the edges of the room that suddenly felt cold and isolating. I was surrounded by comfort, yet in that moment, all I felt was utterly alone.

A sob escaped my lips, a raw, choked sound that echoed in the emptiness. I curled in on myself on the expensive couch, the soft fabric doing little to soothe the deep ache within. Seven years. Seven years of hoping, of secretly wishing for a change that would never materialize. And with each hateful word in that vile letter, the last vestiges of that hope withered and died, leaving behind only a profound and desolate loneliness.

The pain wasn't just about the words on the page; it was about the years of accumulated hurt, the constant rejection that had chipped away at my spirit. My body trembled, racked with the force of my grief. I clutched at the soft fabric of the couch, as if trying to ground myself, but the emptiness inside felt vast and unyielding.

The thought twisted the knife even further.

Clutching a throw pillow to my chest, I curled tighter on the couch, as if trying to physically fill the emptiness that gnawed within. It wasn't just the loss of their acceptance; it was the realization that a part of me, a small, hopeful ember, had still clung to the possibility of reconciliation. And that ember had just been extinguished by their cruel words. The tears had slowed to a trickle, leaving behind a raw, burning sensation in my eyes and a heavy weight in my chest. I felt like an orphan adrift at sea, with no true anchor, no place where I was unconditionally and wholeheartedly embraced by my own blood.

So what do one do when they feel sad, lonely, and utterly abandoned?

They drink.

I pushed myself up from the couch, the soft cushions offering little comfort now. My gaze drifted towards the sleek, well-stocked bar in the corner of the living area. Bottles of amber and clear liquids glinted under the soft lighting, promising oblivion. A way to quiet the relentless voices of self-doubt and the gnawing ache of loneliness.

The letter lay forgotten on the coffee table, its poisonous words having already taken root.

Time lost all meaning. Hours blurred into a continuous cycle of pouring, drinking, and a dull, aching numbness. The tears had long since dried, replaced by a heavy, listless apathy.

The hazy stillness of my self-imposed oblivion was shattered by the soft click of the penthouse door. Through the alcohol-induced fog, a familiar silhouette materialized. Levi. He moved with his usual quiet grace. His gaze found me by the panoramic window, perched precariously on the edge of a solitary couch, the city lights painting distant, uncaring patterns on the glass behind me. His expression, usually so carefully guarded, held a flicker of something unreadable as he took in the scene: the neglected glass on the nearby table, the unfocused stare in my eyes, the slumped posture that spoke volumes of my despair.

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"Raphael." It wasn't a question, nor an accusation, simply my name, spoken with a weight that sobered me slightly. He didn't approach immediately, giving me space, allowing me to meet his gaze on my own terms.

A wry, unsteady chuckle escaped my lips. "Families suck, don't they, Levi?" The words were slurred, the alcohol still clinging to my tongue, but the sentiment was raw and genuine. It was a pathetic attempt at connection, a desperate bid for understanding from the one person in my life who understood the complexities of fraught relationships, albeit in a vastly different context.

Levi finally moved, his steps silent on the polished floor as he approached the couch. He didn't sit beside me, maintaining a respectful distance. His gaze, sharp and perceptive as always, flickered towards the empty glass on the table before returning to mine.

"I assume the contents of the letter were not pleasant," he stated, his voice devoid of pity but laced with a quiet understanding. A ghost of a grimace touched his lips. "You caught a glimpse of my family when you met my mother. So, yes. Families… can be a significant source of… unpleasantness."

“Tell me about your family,” I said, hoping maybe I might find some solace.

Levi's gaze remained fixed on the distant city lights for a long moment, the cold, impersonal glow mirroring the chill in his voice. A muscle ticked rhythmically in his jaw, a subtle betrayer of the tightly controlled emotions beneath. "You already know about my sister, and my father. But, if I must," he began, the words clipped and precise, as if reciting a factual but unpleasant history. "The Blake family was a dukedom centuries ago. They enjoyed close relationships with the royal family, a powerful alliance that secured our standing. But, as with every noble lineage, the relentless march of centuries eroded that power. Though the lands remained, the ancestral houses stood, the family companies continued to operate, the influence, the weight we once held, it diminished. Because that lost power needed to be compensated for, someone had to bear the burden of keeping things afloat. That thankless role fell to my father. I witnessed firsthand how the relentless stress of it, the constant maneuvering and worry, leached the life from him, leading him to an early grave."

A shadow, dark and fleeting, crossed his features before he continued, his voice now laced with a distinct edge of resentment. "On the other hand, my mother, Cybil. A sharp and fiercely intellectual woman, whose sole ambition was to see the Blake family reclaim its former glory. As a child, I was often a silent observer at her elaborate tea parties, a training ground where I learned to decipher the subtle language of power. With seemingly innocuous gestures – a slight tilt of her head, a carefully phrased inquiry – I watched her expertly gather information, manipulate alliances, dissect the weaknesses of other noble ladies. She held me in high regard, not as a son to be cherished, but as a powerful asset, a carefully cultivated heir who would fulfill his duty to restore the family's prestige. Her focus was solely on my education, my intellectual development, to the exclusion of all else. Our family dinners were exercises in absolute silence. ," he repeated the word, a bitter undertone coloring his voice. "It was perceived as 'peace' by the oblivious servants. But, it was a battlefield at that table. A silent, strategic war, and my mother, with her piercing intellect and unwavering ambition, would win that war every single time, leaving the rest of us… subdued."

"I am sorry to hear that," I murmured, the words feeling inadequate against the weight of the history he had just laid bare.

“There is no need for sympathy. It is shameful to admit, but my mother shaped me for the better or worse.” There was a finality in his tone, a sense that this was a truth he had long come to terms with, however unpalatable. “I would also wish to hear about your own family, Raphael.”

"In short," I said, the alcohol in my system making me a little too blunt, "they wanted me to be an angel, like in their religion. No cuss words, no violence, and absolutely no kissing boys."

"An angel," he repeated the word, a hint of sardonic amusement playing on his lips. "A demanding aspiration for any son." A beat passed before he continued, his voice losing its lighter tone. "And the consequence of failing to meet such… celestial standards?"

“I pounced on the first man I saw, got outed to my parents by my friends and got slapped. Then I run away from the house. Rest is Ascaria and acting.”

"A… direct approach," he commented dryly, his lips twitching almost imperceptibly. "Efficient, if not conventional."

“Yeah, what about you? You decided the erase nobility because of ‘standards’. At least I only run away from the house while you started a full on revolution.”

A shadow fell over Levi's features, the earlier amusement vanishing. "My suffering may have begun personally, Raphael, but it extended far beyond myself. You speak of Julia… yes. A woman trapped by the same archaic system I sought to dismantle. Her unhappiness, her stifled life, was a direct consequence of those very 'standards' I rejected. And you met Lady Isolde. Her impending marriage to her cousin… a chillingly common practice, designed to keep bloodlines 'pure' and power consolidated. Is that not a form of suffering, even if cloaked in tradition and duty? Their personal desires, their potential for genuine connection… sacrificed at the altar of lineage."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. "My 'revolution,' as you call it, was not solely for my own liberation. It was for the Julias, the Isoldes, the countless others suffocated by a system that prioritizes titles and heirs over individual humanity. Your escape was a necessary act of self-preservation. Mine was an attempt to dismantle the cage itself, so that others might not have to flee to find their freedom. But since the topic shifted to this, there is something we must discuss. Lady Elira, the woman who carries my fetus, still haven’t made a decision. Since I was busy with the aftermath of your shooting, I didn’t press further.”

“I may have a solution for that… I think if the child is a girl, you let her keep the baby. You said your plan will reach it’s end in a year, right? So even if the child is a boy, he will not be an heir to any family since the nobility will be dissolved completely.”

"That… is a pragmatic approach," he finally conceded, his voice measured. "If the child is a girl, allowing Lady Elira to raise her… it avoids unnecessary conflict and adheres to her wishes, should she desire to keep the child. And your point regarding the dissolution of nobility within the year… it does render the child's gender irrelevant in terms of inheritance. However… there are factors to consider. Lady Elira's well-being, her financial security and the potential emotional ramifications for all involved. While the child may not inherit a title, it is still a life, and its parentage will be known. Are you suggesting a complete disassociation in either scenario, Raphael?"

"Julia told me that she may sneak someone out of the country if the need arises. Maybe we can do that for Lady Elira."

Levi's expression darkened, his eyes hardening with a flash of hurt and anger. "My will is completely disregarded by you, again. I see. No one asked me whether I wanted a child or not, my sperm was stolen, but all we discuss is that woman's safety or what not."

My hands went up in a placating gesture, trying to quell the storm brewing in his dark eyes. "Look, look. It is not that I disregard the horrible abuse you suffered, no. Believe me, I understand the violation, the lack of control. But I'm trying to be practical, as you always are. I know you have every means to end the pregnancy right now. I know that, Levi."

I paused, trying to choose my words carefully, treading on fragile ground. "But all I am saying is, there's no inherent to abort a baby if it's not going to inherit a title, if that was a primary concern. And Lady Elira didn't care about the gender of the baby, at all. She already told you – you can end her family if you let her keep the child. It gives her a future, on her own terms, without the burden of producing an heir for a system that's about to crumble anyway."

Levi's voice was dangerously low, the controlled fury barely contained beneath the surface. "Raphael. Do not mistake pragmatism for a lack of will. I can do both. I can end her family and her pregnancy with a single phone call. The means are readily available."

A sigh escaped my lips, the exasperation evident in my tone. "I know you , Levi. I watched the shit you pulled over the last month. Believe me, your capabilities are not in question." I met his intense gaze, trying to convey the urgency of my plea. "But you also vowed for a better future, a future free from the very ruthlessness that makes those 'means' so readily available. So… Lady Elira keeps the baby if it’s a girl. Okay?” I asked.

Levi regarded me for a long, silent moment, the internal conflict evident in the shifting shadows of his expression.

"Okay," he finally conceded, the single word carrying a heavy weight of consideration. "If it is a girl, and if that is Elira's sincere desire, she can keep the fetus. We will ensure she has the resources and support she needs, independent of her family's expectations or my… former obligations."

He paused, his gaze still holding mine. "But this is contingent on your desire, Raphael. Not out of obligation or fear. I will speak with her again, and her choice will be respected. And if it is a boy… we will revisit the options, with a focus on minimizing harm and respecting her autonomy."

Wow. Levi conceded. Not a full, resounding victory, perhaps, but a concession nonetheless. Baby steps. Maybe, just maybe, that "better future" he spoke of was starting to take shape, one difficult compromise at a time.

"I appreciate that, Levi," I said, the sincerity in my voice genuine. "Thank you for considering… a different path."

It wasn't a complete resolution, and the uncertainty surrounding a potential son still lingered, but it was a start.

Levi's arms crossed over his chest. "I am not happy with the path we have chosen, though," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of the concession he had just made.

"Regardless," I countered, trying to inject a note of unwavering positivity into the suddenly tense air, "you took that step. And for that, I am really happy." I held his gaze, trying to convey the significance of his willingness to compromise, even if it wasn't accompanied by enthusiasm.

"If you are truly happy," he stated, his voice regaining its usual pragmatic tone, though the underlying still lingered, "I must inform you, we will have an unpleasant evening tomorrow, Pulla. Political maneuvering starts. There will be a charity gala. But I am still not sure which charity foundation to pick."

“Hm… Well… Given the timing, we can choose something along the lines of violence, abuse maybe?”

A thoughtful furrow creased Levi's brow as he considered my suggestion. "Violence and abuse… a timely theme, given recent events," he murmured, a hint of a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "It would certainly garner attention, perhaps even a degree of… uncomfortable resonance with certain attendees."

He paused, his gaze flicking to me, assessing my sincerity. "Are you suggesting we use the gala as a platform to subtly highlight the very issues I intend to eradicate? A theatrical irony, perhaps?" He tapped a finger against his arm, considering the implications. "Which specific foundation within that sphere were you considering, Raphael?"

“I am sure you have a foundation for people who suffered from violence from their superiors, like… nobles.”

A slow smile spread across Levi's face, a genuine, albeit slightly sharp, expression of amusement and understanding. He tapped his fingers again, his gaze thoughtful. "The irony would be… exquisite. Funding a cause that implicitly critiques the very system I am working to dismantle, all under the guise of philanthropic generosity. It would certainly send a message, albeit a subtle one, to those with ears to hear."

“Levi, I know you spend a huge sum of your money on charity, but when I see that calculating look in your eyes, a shiver runs down my spine,” I said while shivering.

A low chuckle rumbled in Levi's chest, his gaze softening slightly as he observed my reaction. "Do not mistake calculation for malice, Pulla," he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Sometimes, the most impactful change requires a degree of strategic thinking. And yes," he conceded, his eyes twinkling slightly, "I do find a certain satisfaction in the elegant execution of a well-laid plan, even in philanthropy."

He reached out a hand, his touch surprisingly gentle as he lightly brushed my arm. "Rest assured, the funds will go to those who genuinely need them. The pointed interpretation is merely a layer of added… flavor, shall we say, for those who might otherwise remain oblivious to the suffering around them." His gaze held mine, a hint of reassurance in their depths. "No one will be harmed by our choice of charity, Raphael. Except perhaps the consciences of a few particularly tone-deaf nobles."

“How can someone be scary while we discuss charity? ?”

A wry smile touched Levi's lips, a hint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "Ah, Pulla, you wound me. Is it so impossible for a man of my… reputation to possess both a strategic mind and a philanthropic heart?" He paused, a playful glint in his gaze. "Perhaps it is the juxtaposition that unnerves you. The image of a wolf in sheep's clothing, carefully distributing aid while simultaneously plotting the downfall of the flock."

“Whatever, I already feel like shit because I gave you the idea of choosing abuse victims for our political elbow touching.”

A sigh escaped Levi's lips, his amusement fading slightly as he registered the genuine discomfort in my voice. He reached out, his hand finding mine and squeezing it gently. "Raphael," he murmured, his tone softening, "do not torment yourself. Your suggestion was astute, a way to leverage the gala for a purpose beyond mere social posturing. It highlights a truth that many within those gilded halls conveniently ignore."

He met my gaze, his dark eyes holding a hint of reassurance. "Think of it not as exploiting suffering, but as illuminating it. The funds raised will still provide tangible aid to those who need it most. The… political 'elbow touching,' as you so charmingly put it, is simply a necessary means to a greater end. A bitter pill, perhaps, but one that can ultimately lead to a healthier body politic." He squeezed my hand again. "You have a good heart, Pulla. Do not doubt your intentions."

"Right, the 'greater good,'" I echoed, a touch of sarcasm lacing my tone. It was the justification often used for morally ambiguous actions, and it left a lingering unease in my gut. I looked at him, trying to gauge the sincerity behind his words. "Just try not to be too terrifying while you're at it, okay?”

A low chuckle rumbled in Levi's chest, a hint of genuine amusement returning to his eyes. "Terrifying? My dear Raphael, I prefer to think of it as memorably persuasive." He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against my cheek. "But for you, I shall endeavor to keep the more… predatory aspects of my nature under wraps. At least until the after-party." A playful glint danced in his eyes, a subtle reassurance beneath the teasing. "Consider it a personal challenge. Charm, not terror, will be my weapon of choice for the evening. Mostly."

A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "Mostly?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow. "I'll hold you to that, Levi. My delicate sensibilities can only handle so much." I leaned into his touch for a moment, the warmth of his skin a comforting anchor amidst the swirling anxieties about tomorrow. "Alright," I sighed, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to me. "Enough plotting and political maneuvering for one night. Let's just… try to relax for a while, yeah?"

Levi's arm snaked around my shoulders, pulling me closer against his side. The city lights outside painted streaks of gold across the darkened room, a silent witness to our fragile peace. After a while, the gentle pull of sleep began to tug at my eyelids, the day's emotional roller coaster finally demanding its due. The last thing I registered was the steady beat of Levi's heart beneath my ear, a comforting rhythm in the uncertain symphony of our lives.