A Sullivan Dinner
SARAH
“Okay,” I say quietly, and I slowly begin to pull away from him.
But Cullen’s hands tighten gently around mine. “No....look into my eyes,” he says. “I’m telling the truth. I’m not lying. I’ve never cheated on you. I’m not a cheater, and I’ll never cheat on you. I swear.”
I lift my eyes to his. And for a long second, I just look. I want to believe him...God, I really do. Despite everything that’s happened. Despite the way he made me feel invisible. All the words, all the silence, all the coldness. The things he said about me... the way he looked at me like I wasn’t enough... like I’d never be enough.
And yet—I want to forgive him. More than anything, I want to forget and forgive it all.
But not now.
“I have to go down,” I say quietly, letting the moment shift, grounding myself again in reality. “To the dinner.”
He watches me, but this time, he doesn’t stop me. I step back. I walk toward the door, open it... Then close it gently behind me.
Only when it clicks shut do I allow myself a breath. A full breath. One I didn’t even know I’d been holding. Then I turn and head toward the stairs, toward my family’s birthday dinner. And somewhere deep inside, I whisper to myself: Please let there be no drama tonight. Just for once. Please let this be... peaceful.
I take a deep breath as I step off the last stair. The heels I’m wearing click softly against the polished floors, but my heart is thundering too loudly to notice. I’m walking into a room full of people who share my blood, but not all of them share my heart.
The dining room is already lit up, decorated for the occasion, bright and full of warmth. My father stands when he sees me, smiling proudly like I’ve just walked down a runway, not a flight of stairs. There’s an empty seat next to him, my seat, and beyond that—my brothers.
Ronan is already looking at me. That sick, twisted smirk he always wears when he’s about to open a wound. His eyes sweep over me slowly, methodically, like he’s trying to figure out how to use even the fabric of my dress against me. And Ryan... Ryan just sits quietly, eyes cast slightly downward, but not missing a single thing. Watching. Always watching.
I can’t read him. I’ve never been able to.
“Happy Birthday, princess,” my father says warmly, coming toward me with open arms.
I let him hug me and kiss my cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of his aftershave, the comfort of it. For a second, it drowns everything out.
“You look like your mother,” he whispers. That brings a small, genuine smile to my face.
“Thank you,” I whisper back.
But the moment shatters the second dad helps me to my seat at the table and Ronan leans in, voice soft but venomous.
“Still breathing, I see,” he says under his breath, “Shame. I was hoping for a third drowning. Maybe this time, you’d stay under.”
My stomach twists. My eyes snap toward him, but I don’t say anything. I can't.
Ryan’s eyes flick briefly toward us, and I swear for a moment, just a breath, he looks regretful. But he doesn’t speak. He never does.
Dad finally takes his seat, and I return the smile he gives me. I don't think he heard what Ronan had said earlier and I hope he never does.
"I am so glad you could join us for your birthday, Angel," my father says toward me, his voice warm, too warm. "Your brothers..." he says, gesturing toward them with an open palm "....and I are glad that you're here, home, and that we're a family."
Ronan snorts.
My father gives him a sharp, chastising look. Ronan only raises his hands in mock surrender, as if to say Whatever you say, boss.
My father doesn’t dwell on it. He gestures again, a subtle flick of his hand, and food begins to be delivered to the table. He helps me set a plate, watching me closely, smiling as though the rest of the room has disappeared. He gives me all of his attention, and I try to match it, but all I can feel is Ronan’s sharp eyes drilling into my skin. Watching. Measuring.
But my father pretends it's not happening.
We have a quiet dinner. Ronan doesn’t say anything, which is probably more unsettling than when he does. Ryan, as always, rarely speaks anyway. He sits there, playing with the food more than eating it, eyes flicking between Ronan and me like he’s studying something he’ll never dare speak aloud.
After the main course, as we wait for dessert, my father sits back in his chair, content.
“I’m happy,” he says, voice low, rich with meaning. “Happy to have all my children under one roof again. That I get to celebrate my daughter’s birthday in this house, again. This intimate moment… it means everything to me.”
And for a brief second, I almost forgot everything else. Almost. Then Ronan shifts in his chair, and says, quietly,
“Can I add something?”
My father’s smile falters.
“No,” he says firmly, not unkind, but final.
"Ouch," Ronan mutters with a smirk.
The dessert comes. We eat. It’s lemon cake, my favourite No one speaks much. But the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s loaded. And every time Ronan’s knife scrapes across the plate, it sends a tiny chill through me.
After we’re done, my father leans forward, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and says, “Well, I suppose it’s time for the presents. Let’s go to the family room.”
We rise. I follow behind my father as he leads the way, and as we’re walking, I say softly, “But you already gave me a gift. You didn’t need to give me another one.”
He only smiles down at me, kisses my forehead, and says, “That wasn’t your gift, Sarah. That was a warm-up gift. Something I probably should’ve given you on your sixteenth birthday. I just wanted to do that.”
I smile, lips parted in surprise. “Thank you,” I whisper.
When I turn back to glance at Ronan and Ryan, I find both their attentions locked on me and my father. Not the gifts. Not the family room. Us.
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