Chapter 9 - The Elite Party Crew
1252 Words
Leo stared at the screen of his phone long after the display had dimmed. The penthouse, which only hours ago had been vibrating with the anticipation of music and laughter, had grown unnervingly quiet. Half-empty crystal glasses sat abandoned on marble surfaces; decorations still clung to the walls like festive ghosts waiting for a celebration that would never arrive.
His thumbs hovered over the glass. The group chat was a frantic blur of activity.
LEO ELITE — PARTY CREW 🥂🎉🍻
Twenty-seven unread messages pulsed with a demand for his attention. He exhaled a long, tired breath and began to type, his movements stiff.
Leo: Party is canceled tonight. I’m sorry for the short notice.
The typing bubbles exploded instantly, a digital riot of confusion and entitlement.
Mark: WHAT???
Jade: You’re joking, right? 🤔
Chris: People already flew in for this, bro. 🤯
Lena: This is incredibly unprofessional, Leo.
Victor: You don’t just cancel a night like this. 🥶
Leo closed his eyes, the blue light of the phone feeling like a needle against his tired lids. He typed again, his voice in the text becoming colder, more final.
Leo: My father is in the hospital. I’m leaving the city tonight.
The chat went silent for a heartbeat. Then, the tone shifted—a reluctant, awkward retreat.
Mark: Damn. Sorry to hear.
Jade: I’m sorry, man. ☹️
Chris: That sucks. But still— 😮💨
Lena: You could’ve let us know earlier. 😤
Victor: Family first. We’ll reschedule when you're back.
Anger and resentment bled through the screen despite their hollow condolences. Leo didn't respond. He locked the phone and leaned back against the kitchen counter, staring at the empty air. The disappointment and the frustration of his "friends" were expected; he was used to people wanting pieces of him. He was used to being the sun that their social lives orbited around.
But right now, none of it felt real.
His gaze drifted to his other phone sitting on the counter. The card Amelia had touched was tucked beside it. He knew she’d be expecting him tonight. He knew she might have already started getting ready, might be looking in the mirror, might be wondering if this was the night her life finally changed.
His thumb hovered over her contact.
Call her.
Text her.
Explain.
He didn't.
It wasn't because he had forgotten her, and it certainly wasn't because he didn't care. It was because something about her felt... unfinished. He realized that if he opened that door now—if he heard her gentle voice—he’d have to explain more than he was ready to say. He’d have to admit he wasn't just the successful man she saw; he was a son watching his world crumble.
He left the phone where it sat.
Spike appeared in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the hall light. He had been watching his brother in silence. “You didn’t tell her,” Spike said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Leo didn't turn around. “No.”
Spike nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Okay.” There was no judgment in his voice—only the quiet understanding of a twin who knew the weight of a secret.
They packed in a heavy, rhythmic silence. The penthouse felt hollow as they moved through it, gathering fragments of their lives into leather bags. Spike folded his clothes methodically, his hands still steadying from the adrenaline of the near-miss. Leo shoved things into his suitcase without order, his mind already miles away.
At the door, Leo paused. He looked back at the sprawling space—at the echoes of a life built on noise, wealth, and strategic distraction.
“Feels strange,” he muttered, the word echoing.
Spike slung his bag over his shoulder, the leather creaking. “Yeah. Like we’re leaving a movie set.”
They stepped out into the hall, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. The night air was cool and thick with the scent of impending rain. The car ride to the airport passed in a blur of city lights and the low, rhythmic hum of the engine.
Spike stared out the window, his reflection ghostly against the glass. He couldn't stop seeing the crosswalk. He couldn't stop thinking about how close he had come to shattering a life.
Leo glanced at him from the driver's seat. “You still okay?”
Spike hesitated, his voice low. “I almost killed someone today, Leo. I can still feel the vibration of the brakes.”
Leo swallowed hard. “But you didn’t. You stopped.”
“Still,” Spike said, his gaze fixed on the passing lights. “It shook something loose in me.”
Leo nodded slowly. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe we needed to be shaken.”
The airport was a chaotic sea of rolling suitcases and tired, anonymous faces. The overhead announcements echoed in a cold, metallic drone.
Chicago.
Home.
They moved through security like shadows, eventually finding their gate. Leo leaned back in the plastic seat, his arms crossed tight over his chest. Spike stared at the departure board, his mind a million miles ahead.
“Do you think he knows we’re coming?” Leo asked suddenly, his voice small.
Spike nodded. “Mum told him. She said he was waiting.”
Leo exhaled, a long, shaky breath. “Good.”
A moment later, Leo’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced down instinctively. It wasn't Amelia. It was just another message from the group chat—someone complaining about the VIP table deposit. He ignored it.
Spike noticed the flicker of the screen. “You okay with that? Leaving things unsaid with her?”
Leo thought of Amelia’s smile. He thought of the way she had looked at him—without wanting a table, a bottle, or a favor. Just looking at him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely audible over the airport din. “But right now, I don’t have the space to be everything to everyone. I only have enough space for family.”
Spike nodded. “That’s fair.”
The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. They stood in unison, their shoulders brushing as they joined the line. When the plane finally taxied and took off, Leo watched the city shrink beneath them until the lights were just scattered stars on a dark canvas.
Somewhere down there, Amelia was probably finishing her shift. Or sitting with Iris. Or waiting for a text that would never come.
The thought twisted a knot in his chest, but the plane climbed higher, piercing the clouds. The cabin lights dimmed. Spike rested his head back, his eyes finally closing in exhaustion.
Leo stared out the window into the void. For the first time in years, there was no music, no crowd, no one chanting his name. There was only the quiet hum of the jet engines and the gravity of a son's duty pulling him home.
Somewhere between the clouds and the truth, Leo realized something he hadn't expected: some silences weren't mistakes. They were pauses.
And sometimes, life pressed pause so you could remember who you were before the music started.
- Writer
