Clinton stood in the corridor, barefoot, shirtless, in loose pants. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. The overhead light caught the curve of his jaw and the tired sharpness in his eyes.
"Come here." His voice was quiet but firm.
Tasha hesitated.
Clinton rolled his eyes and strode over, taking her by the wrist and pulling her down the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them.
Inside the room, silence. The air between them shimmered with tension.
Tasha couldn't look at him.
Then his voice came, low and close behind her.
"Why did you knock at my door?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. She wanted to say it wasn't me. That it was Jose. That she had tried to leave.
But before she could speak, his hand reached for her face. His mouth brushed hers.
And for a moment, just a moment, the world stopped.
*********
"You still haven't told us what's on your mind," Samuel said, stepping over to Clinton. He arched a brow, trying for levity when Clinton finally looked up.
"You've been quiet the whole time," David added from across the room. "It's weird."
Clinton had barely spoken since they picked him up. Normally, he'd dominate the ride with stories, usually absurd, occasionally brilliant. Tonight: nothing. Just a heavy silence, punctuated by sighs.
Now, in their private room at the billiard club, Harrison lined up a shot while David watched him, distracted. Daniel, sprawled on one of the leather sofas, seemed more invested in the drinks than the game.
"You're gonna hustle the wrong guy someday," Daniel said, watching Harrison sink three reds in a row.
"Highly unlikely." Harrison flashed a cocky grin. "I was trained for higher stakes."
"You should open a snooker club," David said. "Way more fun than spreadsheets and boardrooms."
"My father would have a heart attack," Harrison replied with a casual shrug. "The man's invested too much in the heir project."
Daniel chuckled. "Only child problems," he said knowingly. He, too, carried the burden of legacy, his parents dead-set on pushing him into engineering while all he wanted was to play music.
They'd gathered here under the pretense of relaxing and finally hearing about Clinton's recent land visit. The last attempt had been canceled. Daniel had booked the room until evening this time, hoping Clinton wouldn't ghost them again.
David eventually tossed in the cue. "Alright. I give up. You're too good," he said, shaking Harrison's hand.
"Tell me something I don't know," Harrison replied with a smirk.
David returned to the table while Daniel gave a half-hearted applause from the couch. Clinton sat in silence, spinning the rim of his glass. The others exchanged glances.
"So," Samuel prompted again, more gently now. "What happened?"
Clinton exhaled. Then, quietly, almost as if the words had slipped out, he said, "I slept with the cleaner."
The room stilled.
"What?" Harrison said first.
"Wait," Daniel leaned forward. "Is she, like... old?"
Clinton shot him a glare. "No. She's young. And beautiful." His voice dropped.
Daniel blinked. "Huh."
"Did you use protection?" Samuel asked bluntly. "Because if she's pregnant—"
Clinton shook his head, face tight. "It wasn't planned. It just... happened." He paused, ran a hand over his jaw, and muttered, "She was a virgin."
A sharp silence cut through the room.
"At least you don't have to worry about STDs," Daniel offered, reaching for his drink.
Samuel rolled his eyes. "Dan, really?"
Clinton barely heard them. His mind was still in that bedroom, her body curled beside his, the faint trace of blood on the sheet, the silence afterward.
"Relax," Harrison said, trying to ease the tension. "It was a one-off, right? Just... make it clear next time you see her."
"Next time?" David muttered, his tone tight. "He slept with her in his family's house."
Clinton looked up slowly. "There's more," he said. "She's Ronald's daughter."
The words dropped like lead.
Daniel straightened. "Ronald—your gatekeeper Ronald?"
Clinton nodded. "I didn't know. Found out this morning. Mom mentioned it over breakfast."
"Shit," Daniel muttered. "That's... not just a fling."
"Exactly," David said. "Ronald's basically family. You can't play around with his daughter like she's some—"
Samuel cut in. "They're adults. Big deal. If she gets pregnant, she handles it. Clinton's not ready to be a dad, and she should know that."
David snapped his head toward Samuel. "You're just casually suggesting abortion now?"
"Don't twist my words," Samuel replied coolly. "I'm being practical."
"I can't have a kid with her," Clinton said, voice low. "She's not my type. Too loose."
"That's the spirit," Samuel said, raising his glass. Clinton forced a laugh, clinking his glass back. But the smile didn't reach his eyes. He'd drank full.
David leaned in, voice firm. "That's enough. You need to get your head on straight before this explodes."
Clinton reached for another drink, but David blocked him.
"Clinton. Stop."
Clinton rolled his eyes, then lifted his voice. "Waiter!"
Daniel tensed. "Don't, man."
A young waiter, barely their age, hurried over. He'd been briefed this was a 'private meeting.' Now, it looked more like damage control.
"Do you want another drink?" he asked cautiously, eyes darting between the group and Clinton's swaying frame.
"Yes," Clinton said.
"No, we're good," Daniel interjected firmly.
The waiter hesitated.
"If you don't bring it," Clinton said coldly, "I'll make sure you're fired."
David groaned. "He's drunk," he muttered.
The waiter sighed. "I'll get it," he said, bowing slightly and turning to leave.
"Wait!" Clinton called.
The boy turned, wary.
"Why's your hair pink?" Clinton asked, slurring.
The waiter blinked.
"You look ridiculous. Feminine boy," Clinton sneered.
Samuel sighed. "Ignore him."
"I like it this way, sir," the waiter replied calmly, though he stared at the floor.
Clinton's lip curled. "You must have awful taste."
"I try not to," the boy said softly.
Clinton suddenly lurched forward, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and staggered over. Before anyone could stop him, he poured the remaining liquor on the waiter's shoes.
"My God," David whispered.
The boy flinched, jaw tightening.
"Clean it up," Clinton snapped. "That's your job."
Samuel caught Clinton's arm. "We're leaving."
The others didn't argue. They filed out, leaving the waiter kneeling on the floor, retrieving the empty bottle.
⸻
Meanwhile...
Tasha stared at herself in the mirror, her emotions a swirling storm of joy and fear.
Should she feel ashamed?
Her fingers touched her flushed cheeks, trembling slightly at the memory. The night before hadn't been planned, but it had felt, right.
She had slipped out of Clinton's bed before dawn, careful not to wake him. She remembered the way the curtain glowed with first light as she dressed beside the window, her bare feet cold against the floor.
By the time she reached her own room, it was barely 5 a.m. She'd smiled then, relieved no one had seen her. Especially not her father.
Now, standing in the soft morning light, her hand drifted to her abdomen. The memory of his touch still lingered, intimate, clumsy, real. It had hurt. But she didn't regret it.
She had given herself to the boy she adored.
She closed her eyes, her fingertips resting just above her heart.
She didn't know what would happen next.
But one thing was certain: that night would stay with her, always.