You are Veronica Lodge's brother, and Hiram is overtly protective, especially because you're gay. He smells a boy on you, bathes you very thoroughly, and smacks your butt when you complain.
FATHER KNOWS BEST
The heavy oak door of the Pembrooke clicked shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the cavernous, opulent lobby. I'd done it. I'd slipped past the doorman, past the concierge, my heart hammering against my ribs with a thrill that was equal parts terror and exhilaration. Archie's scent still clung to the collar of my jacket, a mix of his laundry detergent, the crisp autumn air, and something that was just uniquely “him.” It was a secret victory, a small rebellion in the gilded cage my father had built.
I was halfway up the grand staircase, my hand trailing along the cool, polished mahogany banister, when a voice cut through the silence like a shard of ice.
"And where do you think you're going, Y/N?"
I froze, my hand gripping the banister so tightly my knuckles turned white. I didn't need to turn around. I knew that voice. It was the same one that had dictated my schedule, chosen my friends, and looked through me as if I were a disappointing investment rather than his son. Hiram Lodge. He stood at the base of the stairs, a silhouette of impeccable tailoring and barely contained menace, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Just... out for a walk, Father." I said, forcing my voice to remain steady as I slowly turned to face him. "I needed some air."
He didn't move, but his eyes, dark and discerning, swept over me from my disheveled hair down to my scuffed sneakers. He took a step forward, then another, his expensive shoes making no sound on the thick Persian runner. He stopped directly in front of me, so close I could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne and the overpowering aura of his control.
"Air." He repeated, his voice dangerously low. He leaned in slightly, not to hug me, but to inspect me. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. "You smell like the North side. You smell like cheap soap and... boy." His lip curled in a subtle sneer. "Archie Andrews, isn't it?"
My blood ran cold. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me, Y/N." he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was far more terrifying than a shout. He straightened up, his decision made. "You're filthy. Come with me."
He didn't grab me. He didn't have to. He simply turned, and I knew I was expected to follow. The walk to his master suite felt like a perp walk. The rooms were a testament to his wealth and taste, but to me, they had always felt like the chambers of a judge, and I was always on trial.
In his opulent, marble-tiled bathroom, he pointed a finger at the floor. "Strip. Everything in the hamper. Now."
The command was absolute. My face burned with a humiliation that was becoming sickeningly familiar, but I obeyed, peeling off my jacket, my shirt, my jeans, each piece of clothing feeling like a layer of my defense being stripped away. I stood there, shivering slightly in the cool air, clad only in my boxers.
"Those too." Hiram said, gesturing with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "I want you clean."
I wanted to argue, to tell him he was insane, that I was seventeen years old, not a child. But the look in his eyes brooked no argument. I slid off my boxers and added them to the pile, my arms instinctively crossing over my chest. He turned on the water in the massive, freestanding tub, the sound of the rushing water filling the room. As it filled, he moved with a chilling efficiency, laying out a fluffy towel, a bar of his own harsh, antiseptic soap, and a rough washcloth.
"In." He commanded when the tub was full.
I stepped into the steaming water, sinking down until it covered me up to my chest. I hoped the heat would offer some comfort, some privacy, but I knew better. Hiram rolled up the sleeves of his bespoke shirt, knelt on the bathmat beside the tub, and picked up the soap and washcloth.
"This is what happens when you sneak around." He began, his voice calm and conversational as he lathered the cloth. "You get dirty. You bring filth into this house. Into my house."
He took my arm and began to scrub it with a force that made my skin tingle. He started at my shoulder and worked his way down to my fingertips, his movements methodical, almost clinical. He wasn't just washing me; he was erasing Archie, erasing the walk, erasing any trace of a life he hadn't personally sanctioned.
"Father, please." I finally choked out, pulling my arm away. "I can wash myself."
He paused, his grip on my wrist like a manacle. He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. "Can you? It seems you can't be trusted to do anything properly on your own. You can't be trusted to go for a walk without rolling around with some... backstreet boy. You can't be trusted to maintain the standards of this family." He resumed his scrubbing, moving to my other arm, then my chest, his touch firm and unyielding. "Stand up."
I hesitated for a fraction of a second, and his eyes hardened. "Stand. Up."
I obeyed, rising from the water, which sluiced off me, leaving me feeling exposed and cold. He washed my back, my legs, his touch impersonal, yet deeply invasive. He was washing away my sin, my defiance. When he was finished, he pulled the drain plug and gestured to the towel.
"Dry off." He ordered, standing up. He didn't leave as I dried myself, his eyes watching my every move.
Once I was dry, holding the towel around my waist, I finally found my voice, fueled by a surge of indignation. "You can't do this! You have no right! I'm not a prisoner!"
The words were barely out of my mouth before he moved. In one swift, fluid motion, he grabbed my arm, spun me around, and brought his other hand down in a sharp, stinging smack against my bare buttock.
The sound echoed in the tiled room. A gasp of pain and shock escaped my lips. It wasn't violent enough to truly injure, but it was humiliating. It was a gesture of ownership, of absolute dominance.
"I have every right." Hiram said, his voice cold and hard as steel. "I am your father. This is my house. And while you live under my roof, you will abide by my rules. You will be clean. You will be respectable. And you will stay away from that Andrews boy. Do you understand me?"
I could only nod, my throat tight with unshed tears and impotent rage.
"Good." He said, his tone softening slightly as if the matter was now settled. "Now go to your room. I'll have a tray sent up. You're not to leave the Pembrooke for the rest of the week."
He turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving me standing there, the sting on my skin a burning reminder of my place. I was a Lodge. And in my father's world, that meant I was his property to be cleaned, controlled, and kept.
