Chapter Three ~ The Fosters
1268 Words
“Ting… chime… tinnnng" The chandeliers thrummed with a low, golden glow—like warm halos suspended above the long marble dining table of the Foster mansion.
Night pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning them into mirrors that reflected one thing only: wealth carved into stone.
Beverly Hills at night was quiet in that expensive way—where noise was never allowed to misbehave. Even the rustling palms outside the mansion seemed to bow in obedience.
Inside, the Fosters sat for dinner.
Helena Foster, impeccably dressed in pearl silk, lifted her wine glass with a steady grace that came from years of public scrutiny.
Her husband, Fredrick Foster, sat at the head of the table—the place traditionally reserved for kings, dictators, and men who didn’t like being questioned.
Daniel, Ethan, Chris, and Stacey sat already halfway through their meal, none daring to disrupt the thin tension floating beneath the clinking cutlery.
And then, footsteps began to ring. Heavy ones. They sounded too familiar.
Carlota, the family nanny, was the first to react. The sound made her straighten immediately. She was slightly tall, soft-spoken woman from West Africa, her accent gentle but unmistakable—each word she spoke carried the rhythm of home.
The footsteps drew closer. Carlota hurried toward the front entrance. The dining room quieted. Even Fredrick’s fork paused mid-air.
The door opened. And there he was.
RICHARD FOSTER.
Richard stepped inside, he was handsome in the careless way rich young men often were—shirt unbuttoned a little too low, tie missing, hair wind-tossed, expression unreadable. There was a faint smell of whiskey trailing behind him.
Carlota’s face brightened politely despite everything.
“Good evening, Mister Richard” she said, her African accent warm as she reached for his coat and briefcase. “You are late for dinner sir... welcome home”
Richard didn’t respond. Didn’t even glance at her. Arrogance wasn’t new—he’d been raised on it.
Carlota pressed her lips together, quietly folding the coat over her arm.
Richard walked into the dining room—with slow and steady steps, like a man bracing for impact. He leaned down and kissed Helena on the cheek. “Good evening, mom.”
“Richard” Helena breathed, soft but reproachful, trying to hide the anxiety blooming behind her eyes.
He straightened, as he turned toward the other end of the table.
“Good evening, dad” he said, attempting to peck Fredrick’s cheek—but the older man’s cold stare froze him mid-movement.
Richard swallowed the rejection and quietly pulled out an empty chair and sat on it. No one spoke for a hot minute. then finally, Fredrick broke the silence.
“You’re late. Where have you been?”
“Traffic. Dad.”
Fredrick’s fist slammed hard onto the table.
“NONSENSE!!!”
The sound ricocheted off the marble, off the chandeliers, off the walls. Everyone flinched—except for Richard, who simply stared at his plate.
“Fredrick…” Helena whispered, reaching for his arm. “Calm down darling...”
He didn’t listen. Fredrick was the kind of man who took rubbish from no one—not even his own family. In his mind, the world had been merciless to him growing up, so why should he give a damn about sparing anyone?
After Helena called to him, he jerked away, retreating into himself before she could reach him, then continued.
“The police are watching us. Every news reporter is stalking us. You never learn, do you? I told you to stay low, didn’t I?”
“Dad, I wasn’t doing anything wrong..." Richard tried defending himself "I was...”
“Shut up.” Fredrick cut in, pointing at him with a trembling, rage-filled finger. "...Just. Shut up."
“You’re out drinking again. I’ve told you countless times to stay outta alcohol. Tell me... who the f**k do you think is gonna clean up your mess for the second time? Huh? What... what’s her name again?”
He pretended to think for a second then snapped back. “Vanessa… right?”
The name hit Richard like a slap. His eyes darkened. His fist clenched. Old memories began to flow like river. Even Helena turned sharply toward her husband. “Fredrick, that’s enough...”
“No, it’s not!” he roared. “He’s your son, right? Then talk to him! He’s old enough to have a family of his own, but what does he do? Go around wasting MY MONEY on drinks and women! Have you forgotten what happened with Vanessa? If not for my connections with the sheriff, you’d have been in jail, i***t!”
A heavy silence fell. Richard’s voice came out low and shaking with fury.
“Dad, don’t throw rocks and hide your hands. You made me like this. Now deal with it.”
Fredrick froze. Everyone froze instantly. "No way this bastard just said that to me" Fredrick thought to himself
“How... dare you?” he thundered, his voice slamming against the walls with the force of a command.
“Richard, shut your mouth, you ingrate,” Chris snapped. “Dad has shown you nothing but love and care all your life, and this is how you talk to him?”
Richard laughed. A broken and humorless kind of laugh, as though mocking Chris.
“Love?... Care?” He scoffed. “This is your definition of those words? If this is your definition of love and care, then I don’t want it!”
“Richard, that’s enough!” Helena cried out, her voice cracking.
“You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” Richard continued, his eyes burned at his father.
“Everything you do is for you. You might’ve helped clean up my mess with Vanessa, but you and I both know you did that for your own image. If I wasn’t related to you, if I wasn’t tied to you... you wouldn’t have given a damn about me.” His voice cracked. “You’re ruthless, Dad. You’re a demon...”
Fredrick leaned forward slowly, a cruel smile twisting at the corner of his mouth—one that said he’d been waiting for this.
“I’m a demon?” A soft, chilling laugh escaped him. “Says the boy who killed his own fiancée during one of his… episodes.” He tapped his temple mockingly.
“What was it again? Schizophrenia? You thought she cheated on you, right?” His voice sharpened. “You beat a woman to death, Richard. Don’t you dare pretend you’re better than me.”
“Oh my God, Frederick… for f**k’s sake, that’s enough!” Helena’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and trembling, echoing off the walls of the dining room.
Emotion climbed up Richard’s throat, raw and choking. “You know what? I knew this would happen... I’m not welcomed here anyway. Goodnight, mom.”
He pushed his chair back. The scrape echoed painfully.
“But you haven’t touched your food...” Helena said.
“I don’t want it. You can eat it all. I’ve lost appetite.”
He stormed past Carlota, who stepped aside quickly. He snatched his jacket from her so roughly that an involuntary “Oouf...!” escaped her mouth.
Helena flinched. “Richard!... Richard!” she called, her voice chasing him. But the door to the hallway upstairs, slammed before she called out again.
Fredrick leaned back in his chair, his eyes boiling with the kind of prideful anger that swallowed men whole.
“Let him go, Helena” he muttered. “I’ll show that b***h of a son who’s boss around here.”
- Writer
