Clinton sat in the chair by the window, half-draped in morning light, phone resting on his lap. He hadn't meant to be there that long, an hour at least, maybe more. The dull throb behind his eyes reminded him he needed coffee. Badly.
With a grunt, he rose and pressed the buzzer. Then he waited.
Twenty minutes later, a knock came.
Clinton didn't answer the first time. Nor the second. Only after the fourth did he speak, without turning his head.
"Enter."
The door creaked open. A blonde man stepped inside, his shoulders slightly hunched, gaze lowered. Clinton hated that posture.
"I apologize for the delay, sir," the man said, careful not to meet Clinton's eyes. "The cook left early for the market, and I was—occupied."
Clinton said nothing, one arm folded beneath his head, the other massaging his temple. The explanation only worsened his headache.
"You talk too much," he snapped. "Just get me the coffee."
"Yes, sir." The man bowed slightly and hurried out.
When he returned, he carried a porcelain cup balanced on a small saucer, a spoon gleaming beside it. He placed it in Clinton's hand with practiced caution.
Clinton barely glanced at the steaming surface before bringing it to his lips. The bitter heat scalded his tongue, and not in the satisfying way.
He dropped the cup. It shattered on the polished floor, fragments scattering like the last of his patience.
"What the hell is this?" he barked, rising from the chair. "What did you give me?"
"I—I'm sorry, sire, I—"
"One more word and I swear—" Clinton doubled over mid-sentence, pressing a hand to his forehead. A sharp burst of pain surged behind his eyes. He stumbled toward the bed, waving off the man's instinct to help.
The man stepped back immediately, knowing better than to try. "Sir, I think you should see a doctor."
Clinton didn't respond. He stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked up, expression blank.
"Where's the woman who usually makes my coffee?"
"You fired her, sire." The man swallowed. "After... the incident. Neo escorted her and her daughter off the premises."
Clinton blinked slowly, as if retrieving the memory from the depths of his mind. He fired people often. It rarely left an impression.
"Find her," he said. "And take her place."
The man hesitated. Clinton was already scribbling a figure onto a check, tearing the page with a flourish.
"You have one hour," Clinton said, tossing it onto the table. "If you leave without bringing her back, I'll have you arrested."
The man picked up the check. His breath caught at the number. He said nothing, there was nothing more to say.
————
"Where are you?" Clinton squinted at his phone, his voice low as he walked down the staircase. The group video call with his friends had done what nothing else could, it had distracted him from his building migraine and the anger still buzzing in the back of his head.
Upstairs, the cleaner was still working in his bedroom. Clinton didn't wait.
"I'm at the museum," Samuel answered through a light cough. "Georgia dragged me here. I wanted to stay in bed all day."
Of course she had. Georgia had been insistent the moment she arrived for her self-declared vacation. She wanted to visit the Museum of Modern History, just a short drive from their estate, and she'd made it clear Samuel was coming with her, no debate.
She'd always gotten her way.
Georgia, with the diamond drop earrings and soft pink dress, had been in front of the mirror fixing her hair while Samuel sulked in a hoodie. He finally agreed with a frown. "Just one hour," he'd said. She'd smiled. He knew she'd stretch it to two.
A model and photographer living abroad, Georgia had become something of a legend, gracing magazine covers, fronting luxury brands. But at her core, she still loved beauty for beauty's sake. Art. Texture. History. Samuel didn't stand a chance.
Now, in the museum's echoing halls, she was taking rapid shots of a centuries-old African artifact. Samuel's voice returned to the call.
"She's obsessed. Already filled up her memory card."
"At least you left the house," Daniel muttered. He was on his bed, chewing gum. "I locked myself in after another fight with my parents. It's like they take turns pissing me off."
"Purr... I get it," David added dryly. In the background, a knock sounded on his door.
"Breakfast, sire," a woman's voice said politely.
"Not hungry," he barked.
"But it's past ten—"
"Leave me alone!" David snapped.
"She's in love with you," Harrison teased from his corner of the call.
David rolled his eyes. "Shut up."
Harrison chuckled. "Clinton, your scent's ready by the way. Took a million to speed them up, but it's done. Custom formula. You're welcome."
Clinton cracked a smile. The conversation, chaotic, familiar, helped dull the throbbing in his head. Still, he hadn't touched coffee since morning. Why had the woman taken so long to accept her job back? Had she found another?
He doubted it. Still, he'd pay double if she returned. No one made coffee like she did.
"Appreciate it," he told Harrison, pausing on the last step. His new scent was exclusively his, never to be sold, crafted just for him. The others had delivered what he'd asked for too after winning the race to the pub. All except David, who was still waiting for holiday season to pay for his ticket out to Orlando, and Daniel, buried under schoolwork.
Earlier that morning, his new sea-green sports car had arrived from Samuel. The deliveryman insisted on a signature, but Clinton was asleep. The cook signed on his behalf.
As Clinton moved to end the call, he noticed movement in the hallway below.
A girl was walking from the kitchen toward the staircase, hesitant, eyes low. He recognized her instantly.
The daughter.
She was the one who had cried, pleading for her mother the day he fired her. The same girl who'd spilled juice on his rug, an accident, but he hadn't forgiven it.
Her name was Gabriella.