Get over it

Get over it
ZAYN

To the public, I was the golden boy of the Sanchez family. The prodigy with the killer looks, the charm, the brains, everything that made headlines scream perfect heir.

I was the reason the Sanchez name found its way back to the top, the reason they were no longer buried under the shadows of richer, older empires.

But behind the closed doors of the Sanchez mansion?

I was the black sheep. The stain on their prestigious family name. The role they thought Fernando played, but in truth, it was mine all along.

It started the day I came out.

My father, Alejandro Sanchez, kicked me out without a second thought. No son of mine will be a disgrace… those were his words.

I left the mansion after high school and never looked back. Changed my last name, cut ties, built myself from the dirt. Zayn Smith, the man I became, was miles away from the boy who once begged for approval.

The only exception had been my grandfather. He didn’t interfere back then, but he never cut me off either. For years, he was the only Sanchez I spoke to, the only thread of family that didn’t choke me for being the monster I am.

Then five years ago, the empire they were so proud of began to crack.

My father and his “perfect” son made a series of bad deals that threatened to sink the Sanchez Group. They were desperate. I was the lifeline.

I returned, not as the prodigal son, but as the man who rebuilt what they nearly destroyed.

In two years, I turned the Sanchez Group from a declining corporation into the most powerful conglomerate in the country. Top 20 to number one. I did that. I brought in investors, innovated the tech arm, and gave the media something to obsess over.

My face. My name.

Zayn Sanchez.

And yet, even with all that, my father hates me more than ever.

To him, I’m not a success story. I’m a threat. I’m the reminder that he failed, and I didn’t. That I’m everything he couldn’t be. He thinks I’m too proud, too ambitious, too good to be true.

And maybe I am. But I’m also not going easy on any of them.

The man who likes dick is the one saving the family's name. The irony burns, doesn’t it?

I wiped the blood from my lip, the taste metallic and oddly satisfying. I smirked. “You should’ve done better, Father. You don’t want me involved in your projects? Then maybe stop failing so publicly. And maybe, just maybe, don’t ruin family dinners with your temper tantrums.”

My laugh, low and lazy, pushed every button it was meant to.

His hand lifted again, his fist tight with rage, but a voice cut through before he could do anything.

“Alejandro!”

My grandfather’s voice snapped like a whip across the room.

My father froze. His eyes darted around like a man waking from a trance. In a blink, he bowed his head. “Father. I… I’m sorry,” he stammered. “You know how I …”

“How dare you raise your hand to your son under my roof?” Grandfather’s voice shook with barely restrained anger. “Are we not all supposed to be working for the Sanchez name? Or has your pride finally rotted your brain?”

Alejandro gritted his teeth and forced a smile as he slunk back to his seat.

I turned slightly, catching Rome’s face across the room, and stopped.

He looked… pale and haunted. His gaze wasn’t on my face, it was fixed on my lips. The blood.

Shit.

I remembered, too late, that Rome couldn’t stand the sight of blood. He’d never told me why when we were dating but I knew it wasn’t just a casual dislike. It was deeper. Like trauma-deep.

“Hey,” I murmured, clearing my throat and drawing his eyes to mine. “You good?”

Our eyes met, and for a second, he looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. When he finally exhaled, it was shaky. I gave him a small, teasing smirk to ground him, and he rolled his eyes, the strain in his jaw loosening just slightly.

I reached for his hand again, the one I’d dropped when my father stormed in, and laced our fingers together.

“Rome,” I said clearly, “meet my father. Alejandro Sanchez.”

My father’s head turned sharply, finally noticing we weren’t alone.

His eyes narrowed.

Before anyone could process the moment, Fernando barked out a laugh.

“Dad, would you believe Zayn actually got married without telling anyone?”

The table went silent.

Alejandro looked between me and Rome, disbelief clouding his face, then disgust. “You did what?” he spat. “You brought that thing… into the patriarch’s house? You married a man? You think this is a game?”

Fernando chimed in again, smug and gleeful, “Told you, Dad. He’s not just embarrassing the family. He’s trying to destroy it.”

“You keep my name in your mouth a lot for someone who couldn’t manage a lemonade stand without crashing it,” I muttered.

Grandfather tried to intervene, his voice raised again, but I was done.

Rome was still frozen beside me, his face unreadable now, and I could feel something building inside him… confusion, fear, maybe even shame.

No.

I wouldn't let that fester.

I turned to him, cupped his jaw, and kissed him hard and deliberate. Rome attempted to back away, but I drew him closer while probing his mouth with my tongue. He finally relaxed, and I leaned closer to get a taste of him.

I pulled away just enough to speak. “Maybe you’ll believe it’s real when I fuck him in front of you.” My voice was cold and purposeful as I turned to Alejandro. “Should I fucking do that? Right here, right now? I'm gay. Get over it. There's nothing… nothing, you can do.”

And then I grabbed Rome’s hand again and stormed out.

The door slammed behind us.

The hallway echoed with silence until we stepped into the cool night.

As soon as we hit the car, Rome yanked his hand away like it burned him.

He was furious. I could see it in his clenched jaw, the stiff lines of his body, the words he wanted to scream but couldn’t.

His mouth opened once, twice, and then closed again.

Without saying another word, he simply shook his head and rushed into the car.

With my heart still pounding and the taste of blood and rebellion still fresh in my mouth, I followed after a beat.

However, I was unable to determine whether I had just won or lost.

Maybe both.