Silence. No one knew whom he meant.
"The cleaners will handle it," he clarified. His voice was calm, but the protective note was unmistakable. He didn't know why he'd spoken, only that watching her apologize to people who didn't deserve it unsettled him.
Mrs. Sarah cleared her throat gently. "My son is right. Just leave it, Tasha."
Relief softened Tasha's posture. "Thank you, Ma'am," she whispered.
She glanced at Clinton, who was now focused on his food, deliberately detached. He hated this kind of spectacle, the petty tensions, the hierarchy of glances.
"Thank goodness Dad made him stay," Jose quipped, gesturing at Clinton. "Imagine him living alone. God knows where."
Mrs. Cornell offered Jose more rice and chicken. "Eat something, darling."
Jose declined with a smirk. "I'm good, Mum."
Mr. Cornell re-entered the dining room, a weight in his eyes from the business call he'd just ended. A critical property acquisition hung in the balance, five hours away, a deal that could change everything.
"Everything alright?" he asked, noting the dark stain on the table.
"If she hadn't spilled it, it would've been," Uriel said, her voice too casual to be kind.
Clinton's grip on his fork tightened.
Then, as Tasha began to retreat, he spoke again, so softly it barely reached above the clink of cutlery.
"Dine with us."
She turned. Had she heard him right?
Around the table, heads lifted. It was as though the whole room had been waiting for her answer.
Uriel scoffed. "She's not family."
Clinton's jaw tensed, but before he could reply, Mrs. Sarah spoke again, her tone warm, final.
"She is to us. Sit, dear. You're welcome here."
Tasha hesitated, then stepped toward the empty seat across from Clinton. His gaze flicked toward her, just once.
She sat quietly, folding her hands in her lap. The bowl of fries between them seemed to pulse with unvoiced memory. She took one, biting softly, tasting not just food but something simpler, childhood, comfort, a sense of belonging she hadn't realized she missed.
Clinton nudged the bowl closer to her.
Uriel's fork paused midair. "Do you have feelings for her?" she asked.
Every gaze shifted. Tasha froze.
Clinton looked at her, then at Uriel. His voice was unshaken.
"Do you have feelings for me?"
Uriel blinked, lips parting in surprise. "Of course not," she said quickly. "We're family."
But her fingers trembled as she reached for her water glass.
—
Clinton stood just outside the guest quarters, the muted laughter drifting from the main house barely reaching him. In his hand, the bag grew heavier with each passing second, its contents , a gown of deep satin red, shoes that shimmered like frost, and diamond jewelries.
He exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold evening air. The warm glow of the outdoor bulbs painted the night in false daylight, stretching his shadow across the stone wall behind him.
He glanced down at himself, just pajamas and slippers. The chill was beginning to bite at his skin, but he didn't care. What mattered was her. And the fact that he'd waited nearly an hour just to hand her this bag.
Finally, she appeared.
She moved down the hallway in an elegant black gown, unaware of how effortlessly she stole his breath. There was something about the way she walked, unpolished yet hypnotic, that made his chest ache. As she neared, he stepped forward, his fingers brushing her arm, gently pulling her into his orbit.
Her eyes widened, startled, then searching. For a reason. For an explanation. For something he wasn't sure he could say aloud. They stood there, close, so close he could feel the rhythm of her breath, could almost believe that the cold didn't exist. He ached to close the gap, to kiss her, but held back, knowing even this nearness was already too much.
"Clinton, what are you doing out here?" Tasha's voice was soft, laced with concern. "It's freezing, and you're... in pajamas."
She looked at him in that way only she could, a look that said more than words ever could.
He didn't speak right away. Her nervousness made her fidget. Finally, he held out the bag.
"I want you to come to a party with me."
His voice was quiet. Measured. But unreadable. Tasha blinked, caught between hope and hesitation. The idea of leaving the mansion with him, wearing something that expensive, stirred something wild in her. He had bought them, for her. A flutter of possibility swept through her. Maybe he wasn't just being kind. Maybe one day, he could be hers, the father of her future children.
"You know my father is the gatekeeper," she whispered, already weighing her options. "I can't just walk out with you."
"I'll ask him," Clinton said softly, his gaze steady. "I'll be waiting for you tomorrow."
He stepped back, noticing the tremble in her breath. He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to hold her. But he didn't move.
She clutched the bag to her chest just like a secret and disappeared down the hallway. Inside her room, her heart pounded. Dinner had already felt like a dream, she'd dined with the Cornells, and it had been him who invited her. Her whole body buzzed with something dangerously close to hope. Someday, she thought, she might be more than a guest. Maybe one day, she'd belong. She unlocked her door, a sigh escaping her lips. And somewhere, deep down, she wished he'd followed her in.
⸻
Later that night, Clinton stared at his phone, stunned. The news hit like a gut punch. Mr Flores Boron in coma.
He knew the other boys would be reeling too, tragedy in their families always made headlines, devoured by the media like a blood sport. In moments like this, he almost resented the wealth. If their company weren't so successful, maybe their grief wouldn't be so public.
His thoughts turned to Samuel. What must he be feeling?
Clinton had met Mr. Flores Boron only a handful of times, but the man's name alone carried weight. Their families were deeply entwined in business, there would be consequences, far beyond the personal. He was certain his parents were already in crisis mode.
He called Samuel. Voicemail.
Past midnight.
If it weren't so late, Clinton would have driven straight to his house. But even with Harrison's birthday party looming the next day, he knew Samuel wouldn't be thinking about that. Not now.
He walked to the window, staring into the dark, and, for the first time in a long time, he found himself praying. Not for himself. But for Samuel. Praying his friend wouldn't lose himself in the wreckage.
———
The event was set at the luxurious Amalfi Grande Hotel, a seaside resort where the air was scented with jasmine and salt. The ballroom shimmered under crystal chandeliers, a soft glow over silk-draped tables adorned with orchids, peonies, and flickering candlelight. Waitstaff in black-tie attire moved gracefully, offering vintage champagne to guests already basking in elegance.
Clinton arrived with Tasha on his arm. The subtle notes of a live symphony followed their steps as heads turned. In her red designer dress, Tasha glowed, confident, radiant, almost unreal. Clinton's tailored navy suit complimented her perfectly, but more than style, it was a silent declaration: she was with him.