He padded barefoot to the thermostat, switching off the air conditioner that had run too long. His throat was dry, his body craved warmth, caffeine. He rang the bell.
A soft knock answered.
"Come in," he said, voice low.
A woman in a crisp blue uniform entered, her eyes respectfully downcast.
"Coffee," Clinton instructed.
"Yes, sir," she replied quickly.
"With milk. Hot, and desirable."
"Of course."
When she left, Clinton reached for his phone. A wave of missed calls lit up the screen. Last night had been a blur, he'd gone out with Harrison and David, but bailed early without a word. Crowds drained him. He didn't need to explain anymore; his friends knew the pattern. He preferred solitude over noise, stillness over chaos.
He smiled faintly at Harrison's texts, one full of mock threats, the other checking in. David hadn't messaged. He rarely did. Clinton scrolled until he saw his mother's number. Multiple missed calls. Unusual.
He hesitated, then called her.
The line clicked.
"You actually called back," came her voice, sharp and disbelieving. "Where are you? You had us worried sick. Your friends called me. I didn't know what to tell them."
Clinton closed his eyes, resting his head back against the pillow.
"And now," she continued, "your father's back. Dinner tonight. Don't be late."
She didn't pause for breath. "And what is this I'm hearing about the money? You took a ridiculous amount from the company account, for what? Another property? Clinton, we have five houses. The Long Island estate is half-empty."
He didn't respond. Her voice grated, not because she was wrong, but because she never knew why he did what he did. She never asked.
"You act like the world owes you," she snapped. "Stop making decisions based on whims. You're not a child."
"Are you finished?" he said, his voice flat.
"I'm done. Be home by eight." She hung up.
Clinton stared at the phone, the dial tone echoing longer than it should have. Then a soft knock broke the silence.
"Your coffee, sir."
"Come in."
The housekeeper returned, placing the coffee carefully on the table before bowing and leaving. Clinton took it to the window, staring at the ocean as he drank. The heat of the coffee thawed the fog in his mind.
This day, he knew, would be long.
His phone rang . David.
⸻
Later That Afternoon
"Don't sit like that on my couch."
The voice sliced through the quiet. Gabriella jumped, startled. She hadn't heard anyone come in.
The sitting room was sun-dimmed, elegant in white. Clinton stood at the threshold, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Gabriella scrambled to her feet, flustered.
"I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I was just—"
"Who the hell are you?"
She faltered. "My mother... she works here. As domestic staff. I was just waiting for her." Her voice was small. She reached for her glass of juice, but in her panic, it slipped, shattering on the floor and staining the pristine white rug with red.
Clinton's jaw tightened.
"Get out. And tell me who your mother is—she's fired."
"No—please!" Gabriella dropped to her knees, reaching for the spill, her eyes wide with fear. "It was my fault. Please don't punish her."
Clinton stared down at her, unmoved. "You irritate me. I don't take back my words."
He pressed a button. "Security!"
*******
Clinton's eyes landed first on the mansion, its pristine white façade gleaming under the afternoon sun, before shifting to the uniformed security guard swinging open the wrought-iron gates. The sleek, obsidian car he drove, his father's birthday gift, purred gently as it eased forward onto the estate. His gaze drifted over the cars nestled inside the garage until it stopped on a cherry-red convertible with only two seats, tucked near the far wall. Clinton lingered on it a moment too long, admiring the clean lines, the unapologetic boldness. It was elegant. Tempting. Possessable.
He knew himself well: when something caught his attention, he had to own it.
A sharp knock startled him. He turned toward the window, where the guard, Ronald, a fixture in the Cornell household for nearly two decades, stood waiting, his brow furrowed in concern. Clinton sighed and lowered the tinted glass.
"Your family's been expecting you," Ronald said gently.
To the Cornells, Ronald was more than staff; he was familiar, steady, and silently devoted. He'd watched Clinton grow from a boy into the young man now seated behind the wheel. He had, quietly and privately, taken a liking to him.
Especially when his daughter, Tasha, first met the boy.
She had been running an errand for the cook, fetching bread and eggs, when she'd found Clinton alone in the kitchen, sipping juice with one hand buried in the pocket of his grey joggers. He'd glanced at her briefly, eyes cool, appraising, before turning back to his phone, answering a call, and walking away without a word.
She hadn't forgotten that moment. Or him.
"Thank you," Clinton murmured now, flashing Ronald a brief smile. The older man stepped away, satisfied, and Clinton took a breath before stepping out of the car, adjusting his sunglasses with care. His movements were practiced. Detached.
He walked the familiar path through the garden toward the west wing entrance, his thoughts already on the evening ahead. He regretted canceling plans with his friends, David, Harrison, Daniel, and Samuel. They were the only ones who didn't ask him to be someone else.
Inside, the parlor felt different. New chairs in muted green had replaced the old chalk-white ones. A chandelier, untouched and unlit, hung like a relic from a forgotten era. Only the painting on the east wall remained, the one with streaks of lightning caught mid-bolt in a violent, storm-dark sky.
He stepped further in, resisting the urge to retreat.
Earlier that day, he'd video called the others. They'd teased him for bailing. Laughed. Forgiven. Clinton promised not to disappear again, knowing they didn't quite believe him, but also knowing they wouldn't leave. The bond between them was ironclad, forged in boyhood.
"Are you just going to stand there? Come up!" a voice called from above.
Jose.
His sister descended the stairs, her smile warm and familiar. As always, she carried herself like a woman with no regrets, sharp heels, bobbed hair, rose-pink lips. She embraced him, tightly, tenderly.
"You were missed," she whispered, and though Clinton didn't respond, his hands lingered at her back a beat too long. Her presence grounded him. Reminded him of childhood. Of things that didn't need to be said aloud.
"Is Father home yet?" he asked, voice low.
"And Mum?" Jose replied instead, eyes soft. "Call her. She's your mother, Clinton."
He hesitated. "What else has she been telling you?"
"She says you're stubborn," Jose laughed, "but that she loves you more than anything." She slipped her arm into his. "Come on. They're waiting."
For a moment, Clinton allowed himself to enjoy the warmth of her presence, until she leaned in close and whispered, "Tell me what cologne you're wearing. You smell incredible."
He blinked. Was that... flirtation? It lingered, uncertain, in the air between them as she pulled away and walked into the dining room.
Their father, silver-haired and smiling, stood to greet him. He looked healthy. Content. Successful. The kind of man who spoke in clear expectations: Distinction. Legacy. Inheritance.
Clinton embraced him without hesitation.
The dining table was immaculate, set for celebration. His mother, Mrs. Sandra Cornell, avoided his gaze, instead rearranging plates as though it might rearrange her disappointment. He noticed her fingers, delicate, restless.
"I expected this from you," she said, when he chose a seat far from hers. Her voice was quiet but edged with frustration.
Daisy, the eldest sister, entered the room just like a storm in heels. "Let him be, Mum," she said lightly. "He's probably just moody."
Daisy was brilliant, commanding, and unapologetically ambitious, a government official in charge of economic policy. Her path was luminous, enviable. She ruffled Clinton's hair and gave him a long, affectionate hug.
"Mum made your favorite," she whispered.
He blinked. Did he even have a favorite? He mostly ate out. But the care in her voice stilled him. He nodded.
As they ate, talk turned to achievements, his father's business trip, Daisy's growing power in political circles, Jose's stories of law firms and boyfriends and weddings-in-planning.
And then, the voice he had been waiting for:
"You're not leaving tonight," Sandra said suddenly. "Your room's already prepared."