It was a rainy Thursday when Violet returned to her father's home for the weekend. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine from the front porch and something unspoken that lingered in the walls—secrets, old arguments, memories. Her suitcase rolled over the cracked tiles, a faint echo following her footsteps.
Inside, her father, Mr. Jonathan Gray, sat reading the paper at the kitchen table. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed precisely, his demeanor as rigid as ever.
"You're early," he muttered without looking up.
"I missed the last class," she replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
He nodded but didn't respond. The silence between them was never new—it was a space they'd long since grown used to, like furniture you don't love but can't throw out. Her mother, Evelyn, hovered near the stove, pretending to stir a pot that had long gone cold.
"Adam said he might visit this weekend," Violet offered, tossing her bag on the staircase.
That got her mother's attention. "Oh, is he the bookstore boy?"
"Not just a boy. My boyfriend." She smiled, despite herself.
"Right," Evelyn said, her tone unreadable. "Hope he can tolerate your father's 'no shoes inside' rule."
Violet chuckled. "That's the least of his worries."
As the weekend unfolded, the house became a battleground of both warmth and wariness. Evelyn tried her best to make Adam feel welcome when he arrived—offering tea, making his favorite pasta, and even digging out old board games from the attic.
But Jonathan was a different story.
At dinner, Adam complimented the wine collection. "You must know your grapes, Mr. Gray."
Jonathan barely looked up. "I know my investments. That one appreciated 17% in two years."
Violet gave Adam a warning glance—don't poke the bear.
But Adam, ever the jovial optimist, pressed on. "That's impressive. Ever thought of starting a wine blog? You'd have an audience."
"No," Jonathan said flatly. "I don't blog."
It wasn't a complete disaster, but neither was it peaceful. The tension simmered just below the surface like a pot on the verge of boiling over.
That night, Violet sat beside Adam on the back porch swing, a blanket over their knees. Rain drummed softly on the wooden planks.
"Your dad hates me," Adam said, half-laughing, half-sighing.
"He doesn't hate you," Violet murmured. "He just… distrusts everyone who reminds him of freedom."
Adam raised an eyebrow. "I remind him of freedom?"
"Of me," she corrected. "Of the parts of me he couldn't control."
They fell into silence, watching droplets race each other down the glass patio door.
Meanwhile, drama stirred elsewhere.
Across town, at the Bennett household, Violet's cousin Isabella—a fiery drama queen and family favorite—was engaged to a man named Marcus, a rising tech entrepreneur. Only problem? Marcus used to date Violet in college. Briefly, but passionately.
That history had been buried for years, but the engagement dinner was fast approaching, and rumors were beginning to bubble among the family.
"You're going to Isabella's dinner, right?" asked Violet's brother, Chris, over a phone call.
"Would rather jump in a lake," Violet muttered.
"You kind of have to. If you don't, it looks like guilt. If you do, it might turn into a reality show. Lose-lose."
"Comforting, thank you," Violet replied dryly.
Adam, who overheard from the sofa, grinned. "I'm actually kind of excited."
"Why?"
"Drama. Wine. Beautiful women throwing bread rolls in anger. What's not to love?"
Violet groaned. "This is my trauma, not entertainment."
"Oh no," he teased. "Now it's a shared trauma. We're a team, remember?"
The day of the dinner arrived and Violet wore a navy satin dress, elegant and understated. Adam wore a slate gray suit, armed with charm and a diplomatic smile.
The moment they entered Isabella's lavishly decorated home, the air grew thick.
"Violet!" Isabella greeted, all teeth and tension. Her perfectly coiffed hair barely moved as she leaned in for a stiff hug. "So glad you could come!"
"Wouldn't miss it," Violet lied.
And there he was—Marcus. Looking as polished and powerful as ever, his gaze lingering a little too long.
Adam's arm slid protectively around Violet's waist. "Nice house," he said, addressing no one in particular.
Dinner was filled with layered conversations, under-the-table kicks, and subtle jabs disguised as compliments.
Isabella raised her glass. "To new beginnings—and old stories we've finally outgrown."
Violet blinked. That was pointed.
Adam clinked his glass gently. "To love—and the courage to choose it, even when the past lurks in the shadows."
Several heads turned. Marcus gave a slow smile. "Well said."
Later, in the powder room, Violet looked in the mirror and sighed. Her cousin's words echoed louder than she wanted to admit. Was she really over it all?
She didn't realize Isabella was behind her until she spoke.
"You're not fooling anyone."
Violet turned. "Excuse me?"
"I know you still have feelings. And I know Adam's a rebound."
Violet stared at her, stunned. "You're wrong."
"Then prove it," Isabella whispered, and walked away.
By the time they left, Violet's heels ached and so did her heart. Adam opened the car door for her and kissed her forehead.
"Don't listen to her," he said quietly. "You don't owe anyone your peace."
That night, back at the Gray household, Violet cried in Adam's arms. For old wounds. For new doubts. For the complicated love she carried—for her family, for Adam, for herself.
As she fell asleep to the sound of rain and his heartbeat, she realized something: healing didn't mean ignoring the past—it meant surviving it and still choosing to love.