Clinton clenched his jaw. He wanted to go back to the penthouse, to the ocean view, the silence, the control. But he said nothing.
His mother continued, as though reading his thoughts. "As manager of Cornell Industries, I'm informed when funds leave the company account."
A veiled threat. Clinton felt it. But he didn't flinch. If his father knew how much he'd taken to purchase the penthouse, there would be more than awkward tension at the table. It was meant to be an investment, at least, that's what he would say if pressed.
He stood abruptly.
"I need water."
He left the table.
In the kitchen, Clinton drank in silence, staring through the window at the driveway below. The flowers had bloomed, he hadn't noticed them before. Maybe he didn't care to. The stillness outside contrasted with the tension in his chest. He would stay the night. Not by choice, but strategy.
Upstairs, Tasha stood trembling outside his room.
The cleaner had asked her to tidy it, just a quick favor. She hadn't known Clinton would return so soon. Heart pounding, she let herself in, clutching a bottle of sanitizer and a brush. She was wearing a summer dress, thin and backless. The room swallowed her whole. Everything gleamed, from the soft curtains to the impossibly large bed.
She felt impossibly small.
She drifted to the window and drew the drapes open. Outside, she saw her father on the phone. Inside, the room felt like a dream. She traced her fingers along the smooth duvet, the heavy silk, the framed portrait of Clinton, his eyes, mouth, jawline rendered in precise charcoal.
They would look good together, she thought, blushing at her own foolishness.
Then, footsteps. She froze.
She barely had time to hide in the closet before the door opened. Clinton entered, unaware. He closed the door, drew the curtains, pulled off his shirt, and replied to a message from his friend Daniel, smiling to himself.
Tasha held her breath.
She could smell his cologne in the air. She could see the way he moved, fluid, confident. And then, he walked toward the closet.
No, no, no.
She squeezed her eyes shut. The door creaked. Light slipped through. She pressed herself into the corner, praying he wouldn't notice her.
He did.
"What are you doing in here?"
His voice was quiet. Not angry. Just... surprised.
She met his eyes and pulled the hem of her sundress tighter, her voice faltering.
"I—I'm sorry, sir. I swear I didn't—"
But the sentence broke. Her breath hitched. His gaze had dropped.
She didn't need to look to know where he was staring.
*******
Tasha looked away the moment Clinton's eyes met hers. Her breath caught in her throat as he stepped closer, the air around them tightening. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, so close their chests nearly touched. Her thoughts scattered, her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn't think. Could barely breathe.
His voice was low. Measured.
"What do you want?"
She flinched, startled by the question. What did she want? His affection? His attention? Or something she couldn't name?
Her gaze met his.
"Your love," she whispered.
Clinton tilted his head slightly, studying her. A slow grin tugged at the corners of his lips. For a moment, she thought he might say something kind. Instead, he bit his bottom lip, amused, and let his gaze drift over her, from her flushed cheeks to the messy strands of hair falling around her face.
"You're beautiful," he said, brushing a curl behind her ear.
Tasha inhaled, overwhelmed by his nearness, by the scent of his cologne. Her heart fluttered, but then, his tone shifted.
"But you're unkempt."
The word hit her like a slap. Her hands instinctively smoothed the hem of her dress. Shame burned hot in her chest. She hadn't expected that. Not from him. Not when she'd imagined this moment so differently.
He stepped back slightly, still watching her with quiet detachment.
"You hid in my closet for love?" he asked, the disbelief in his voice tinged with something else, disdain, maybe.
"I was here to clean," she replied quietly.
He raised a brow. "With the brush on the floor and sanitizer still on the dresser?" He smirked. "So it was you who left my door unlocked—and the curtains wide open?"
"I was still cleaning," she said, her voice cracking. The heat behind her eyes grew stronger, and she turned away, blinking fast. He didn't need to see her cry.
Clinton lifted a hand, waving her off. "Never mind. Just go." He turned toward the bathroom. "Close the door properly on your way out."
Tasha's fingers trembled as she bent to retrieve the dusting brush. She caught a final breath of his scent before slipping into the hallway and shutting the door behind her.
The tears came the moment she turned the corner.
She kept her head down, the corridor blurring. Clinton's words echoed in her mind, unkempt. Her face crumpled, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, willing herself not to fall apart.
A voice stopped her.
"Are you alright?"
Tasha startled. A tall girl with striking red hair stood just a step away, blocking the light. Her voice was kind, her expression filled with concern.
It was Jose, Clinton's sister.
Tasha nodded quickly, too ashamed to meet her eyes.
"Are you sure?" Jose stepped closer, her tone gentle.
"I'm fine," Tasha lied, trying to muster a smile.
Jose studied her for a moment. "Who are you?" she asked softly.
Tasha cleared her throat, hoping it wouldn't betray her. "Tasha. The gatekeeper's daughter."
"Oh." Jose's face brightened slightly. "My mother speaks well of you. Your father's a good man."
Tasha gave another nod, her fingers gripping the brush too tightly.
Jose's eyes narrowed. "Is something wrong with your face?"
"No, nothing," Tasha murmured, but her voice was unsteady.
Jose didn't believe her. "You saw my brother, didn't you?"
Tasha hesitated. "No," she said too quickly.
Jose's eyes dropped to the brush and sanitizer still in Tasha's hands. "You were cleaning. Where?"
Tasha wanted to run. "His room," she said, barely audible.
"Oh, is he in?" Jose perked up. "I've been looking everywhere."
Tasha swallowed. "I don't think so."
But it was too late. Jose had already begun walking.
"You'll come with me, right? You have his key."
Tasha hesitated, then followed, heart sinking. Her steps were slow, as though each one dragged her deeper into something she couldn't control.
At the door, she patted her pocket, empty.
"The key," she whispered. "I left it inside."
Jose frowned. "How did the door lock, then?"
Before Tasha could answer, Jose tried a few passcodes with no success. She turned back. "Did you lock it?"
Tasha panicked. "Don't you think your brother did? I mean... doors don't lock themselves."
Jose knocked—once, twice, then again. Silence.
"Maybe he's asleep," Tasha said quickly.
Jose sighed. "I wanted to say goodbye before our flight. But I'll call him instead."
She turned to go, and Tasha exhaled in relief.
Then a voice stopped her after Jose had left .
"You. Come back."
Tasha froze.