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The blinding Florida sun was a stark contrast to the overcast skies of Somerset.
The tinted windows of the private car offered some privacy as Michael and Evans rode from the airport toward Michael's neighborhood.
Michael was staring intently at his phone screen, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap.
The photo of him and Emma at the Italian bistro was everywhere.
It was on every major news outlet, dissecting everything from Emma's cardigan to the exact angle of Michael's posture.
"Evans," Michael said, his voice dangerously low and dangerously calm. "Can we sue them?"
Evans, who was currently nursing a massive iced coffee and a jet-lag induced headache, slowly turned his head.
"Sue who?" Evans asked tiredly. "The internet?"
"The account that posted it. The guy who took the picture. The platform hosting it," Michael listed off, rubbing his temples. "It's a massive invasion of privacy. I want a cease and desist drafted, and I want a lawsuit filed by the end of the day."
"Michael, stop," Evans sighed, putting his coffee in the cup holder. "I know you're protective, but suing them is the absolute worst thing you could do right now. It's called the Streisand Effect. If you sue, you're confirming the story is a huge deal, and you'll just draw ten times more attention to it. Plus, you were in a public restaurant. You have zero legal grounds."
"So we just do nothing?" Michael snapped, clearly hating the lack of control.
"We do exactly nothing," Evans confirmed, leaning back against the headrest. "You didn't do anything wrong. You took a girl to dinner. Let the internet lose its mind for forty-eight hours until some other celebrity does something stupid. Just let it be, Michael."
Michael let out a heavy, frustrated sigh, turning his phone off and tossing it onto the seat.
He hated the idea of Emma being scrutinized, but he knew his manager was right.
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A few miles away, inside the bright, airy dining room of his parents' house, the atmosphere was completely different.
Terry was sitting at the head of the dining table, a half-eaten plate of grilled chicken in front of him.
He threw his head back and let out a booming, thoroughly delighted laugh, holding his iPad up to the light.
"I cannot believe it!" Terry cheered, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "The boy finally did it! And a Hollywood actress, no less! I am so incredibly proud of him. I thought he was going to marry his laptop!"
Janet, sitting across from him, did not share his unbridled enthusiasm.
She aggressively stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork, her brow furrowed in a deep, dissatisfied scowl.
"It is not funny, Terry," Janet huffed, crossing her arms over her blouse. "He tells us he's orchestrating a multi-million dollar global charity campaign for the UN. He tells us he's writing new novel. But he completely forgets to mention he's dating a beautiful celebrity? What kind of son hides something like that from his own mother?"
"Oh, come on, Jan," Terry chuckled, taking a sip of his iced tea. "He's twenty-one, not twelve. He's entitled to a private life. Besides, look at the picture! The kid looks completely smitten. Give him a break."
"I am his mother, I am entitled to the gossip before the rest of the world gets it!" Janet argued playfully, though there was genuine hurt in her eyes. "I had to find out my son was in love from the girl at the grocery store checkout counter! Do you know how embarrassing that is?"
"Well," Terry grinned, leaning across the table to poke his wife's arm. "Maybe if you didn't interrogate him every time he spoke to a woman, he would have told you. Remember when he was sixteen and he brought that study partner over? You practically asked her for a blood sample and a credit score."
"I was being thorough!" Janet defended, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile.
Terry opened his mouth to troll her further when the sharp chime of the front doorbell echoed through the hallway.
Terry glanced at the clock. "That must be him! The plane was supposed to land an hour ago." He threw his napkin onto the table and stood up, grinning widely. "I'll go get it. Prepare your interrogation questions, Janet."
Terry walked briskly down the hall, his face beaming with the anticipation of aggressively teasing his son.
He reached for the handle and pulled the heavy mahogany door open.
"Welcome home, Casanova—" Terry started.
The smile instantly vanished from Terry's face.
The color drained from his cheeks, leaving him looking horrified.
The welcoming warmth in his eyes was replaced by a cold, sudden dread.
Standing on the porch was not Michael.
________________________________________________________________________________
A stone's throw away, the black car was idling in the driveway of Michael's sleek, modern home, situated on the exact same property lot right next door to his parents' house.
Michael stepped out of the car, dragging his heavy suitcase up the front steps.
He unlocked his front door, tossing the suitcase into the entryway.
He didn't even bother turning the lights on. He locked the door behind him and turned back to the driveway.
Evans was standing by the car, looking exhausted and ready to collapse.
"Come on," Michael said, gesturing toward the house next door. "Don't go to your home yet. Come to my parents' house. At least eat something hot before you pass out. My mom always cooks a feast when I come back from a trip."
Evans's stomach gave a loud, traitorous rumble.
He sighed, adjusting his jacket. "Fine. But I am eating, and then I am sleeping for three business days."
"Deal," Michael said.
They walked the short distance across the manicured lawn to his parents' front door.
Michael reached out and pressed the doorbell, expecting Terry to swing the door open with a terrible joke prepared.
A moment later, the door slowly creaked open.
It was Janet.
Michael had a huge, warm smile prepared for her, but it died the second he looked at his mother's face.
Janet wasn't smiling. She looked incredibly sad, pale, and entirely rigid, her hands gripping the doorframe so tightly her knuckles were white.
"Mom?" Michael asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What's wrong? What happened?"
Janet didn't say a word.
She just swallowed hard, her eyes filled with an apologetic, helpless sadness.
Slowly, she stepped back and pulled the door open wider, stepping aside.
The blood in Michael's veins instantly turned to ice.
Standing right in the center of the living room, looking entirely too comfortable, were two people he hadn't seen in years.
His late father's sister, Aunt Madeline Wuntch, and her husband, Uncle Keith.
Madeline stood with her arms crossed, a sickeningly sweet, entirely fake smile plastered across her face.
"Hello, Michael," Madeline purred, her eyes practically gleaming with greed as she looked him up and down.
"It's been far too long. 'Your' family has missed you."
Looking at them, a dark, heavy premonition settled into the pit of Michael's stomach.
The paparazzi photo was the least of his problems. The vultures had officially arrived.