"I have your coffee, sir," she said softly, her blonde hair tied back in a rushed knot.
Clinton didn't move. It wasn't the woman he'd hired. That much was obvious. He tapped on his phone, already searching the police line.
"I'm her daughter," she said quickly. "My mother's in the hospital. She taught me how to make it exactly the way you like. She's grateful you came back for her."
Clinton paused.
He remembered. She was the one who ruined his sitting room.
He could have corrected her, reminded her of the costs. The reupholstered furniture, the imported rug. All because of one orange juice spill. But he didn't. He'd already said enough that day.
"Can I have my coffee?"
She stepped forward and handed it to him. He took a sip, steam curling into his nose, and let the warmth settle in his mouth.
Perfect.
Still, he muttered, "I haven't forgiven you."
"I brought pastries too," she offered. "They're in the kitchen."
"I don't eat street food."
She nodded, unfazed.
He handed her the empty cup. "Tell the chef to serve me brunch."
She bowed her head and walked off. Clinton turned back to the TV, flipping through channels without watching. Then Gabriella returned.
"Your meal is ready."
She'd served it herself. Biryani, chicken paprika, and salads,prepared by the cook before her time off. Clinton picked up the fork. He barely tasted the food before something else caught his attention: a pile of new school supplies on the side table.
His mother's handwriting was on the note. Spring break was over. She assumed, correctly, that he'd lost all his notebooks. He tossed the letter aside.
"Take these to my room," he said to Gabriella, rising. "I'm heading out."
She nodded, noticing how little he'd eaten.
He was almost at the door when he turned back.
"What's your name?"
"Gabriella, sir."
He nodded faintly. Her voice, soft and uncertain, lingered in the room. Clinton didn't know why he asked. He didn't plan to see her again.
But he might.
********
The sun casted soft, flickering glow on the windows of the towering university buildings. Students moved steadily through the gates, heading toward their various destinations. Some walked in pairs or groups, laughing about their holidays, others drifted alone, eyes on their phones, headphones tucked in, music shutting out the world. New students clutched campus maps, glancing up at unfamiliar buildings, trying to find their way.
Tasha was among them, her finger tracing a bold line on the university's guidebook. Her steps were unsure, weaving through the maze of paths that sprawled across the massive campus. She had caught the morning bus from her hostel, her heart beating with nervous excitement. Before leaving, she'd grabbed the warm meat pie wrapped for her by Ma'am Rita, the cook who had baked it just for her. A small act of kindness that felt like a charm for the day.
Aisha and Rita had nearly burst with joy when Tasha told them the news: she'd been accepted into the most prestigious university in the country. Their joy was genuine, their praise directed toward the woman who had made it all possible, Mrs. Sarah.
Tasha still remembered kneeling before her in gratitude, eyes wet. "Stand up, darling," the woman had said, smiling gently, "It's the least I could do."
But to Tasha, it was everything.
Now, here she stood under the morning sun, eyes squinting to find the sign that read College of Arts and Humanities. She had taken a wrong turn somewhere. North, then east? Or was it west? The map might as well have been written in another language. She looked up and spotted a grand library across from a quiet bookstall. She sighed. Lost already, and on her first day.
A blaring car horn shattered her thoughts. A silver vehicle sped past her, its tinted windows flashing. She stumbled backward, hand to her chest, her heart racing. She half-expected someone to step out and yell, but the car simply disappeared into the crowd. She exhaled shakily. Finding her class was already hard enough, she didn't need near-death experiences.
Students hurried past. She tried calling out, but no one stopped. A few glanced her way. Most didn't even hear. Her voice felt invisible.
The campus was enormous. Manicured gardens stretched between the buildings. Stone benches lined shady paths. It was far more beautiful, and vast, than the photos online had shown. She wondered, briefly, if someone could actually go missing here.
A hand touched her shoulder. She turned to find a woman in glasses, wearing a university t-shirt and an ID card around her neck.
"You look lost," the woman said warmly. "First-year?"
Tasha nodded. "I am, ma'am. I think I'm lost."
The woman smiled kindly. "You're not the first. You'll find your footing soon enough." Her eyes dropped to the map in Tasha's hands. "Where are you headed?"
"The Faculty of Arts and Humanities," Tasha replied.
"Perfect. That's in the Liberal Arts division, just a few buildings away, and lucky for you, it's on my way."
Relief rushed through her. "Thank you, by the way I'm Tasha." She introduced herself.
As they walked, a girl with tanned skin and braces bounded up to them, her energy impossible to miss. "Professor Nora!" she called out, grinning wide. "Hi!"
"Danielle," the professor greeted with a smile. "Ready for the new semester?"
"Kind of! I just got back from the countryside. Lots of beach time. What about you?"
"Horses and a bit of skateboarding," Nora laughed.
Danielle turned to Tasha, her eyes curious. "I'm Danielle." She offered her hand.
"Tasha."
"Nice to meet you! What's your department?"
"Philosophy," Tasha said softly.
"Oh, cool. I'm in Literature, third year. We'll probably have some classes together."
The three of them walked together until Professor Nora stopped by a staff building. "This is my stop. Danielle, show her to her hall, would you?"
"Of course."
Nora turned to Tasha. "Good luck with your first semester, dear. I hope it brings everything you dream of."
"Thank you, ma'am."
As Nora walked away, Danielle pointed ahead. "That's the liberal arts building. We better hurry—class starts at eight."
A sleek, black car pulled up in front of the building. Tasha slowed. Her eyes locked on the boy who stepped out, phone in hand, dressed in black pants and a crisp, collared shirt. The driver opened the door for him, and he didn't look up once.
Tasha froze.
It was him.