The phone rang again.
He picked it up and pressed it to his ear.
A soft female voice spoke first.
"Hello, Samuel."
He frowned. The voice was familiar, but blurred by distance and contempt.
"It's Rachel," she said, gently. "I've been waiting for you in your room. Your mom said she doesn't know where you are. Where are you?"
His stomach clenched.
His room.
A cold tension slid through his spine. He had told her, explicitly, that he didn't want to see her again. That she had no place in his life. And now she was in his personal space, ignoring his words, moving through his private world as if she still belonged.
The anger rose quickly. But it wasn't just about her. It was also about the girl in the hospital, the one he couldn't stop thinking about, the one he couldn't have.
His voice came sharp, low, and final.
"Get out of my room."
***********
The mansion was unusually quiet. Most of the Cornell family had gone out. Mr. Cornell had left early to check on a construction site he was overseeing, while Mrs. Sarah Cornell had taken Uriel to the family's corporate branch, a steel-and-glass skyscraper rising like a monument to their empire. Inside, well-dressed professionals moved with purpose through sunlit atriums and polished corridors, conducting business that sustained not just the company but the family's staggering wealth.
Tasha had left Aisha and Ms. Ruth in the kitchen, their conversation drifting in and out of flour clouds as they prepared lunch. It was already past seven. Two hours had passed since Clinton had asked for his coffee.
Gabriella, the girl who used to make it, had received a call from Clinton the day after she visited. He told her not to come anymore—someone in the house would make it instead. Still, he transferred her monthly payment. On the call, she had mentioned that her mother was finally home from the hospital. Clinton said nothing. Just a nod. Gabriella wished he'd said more, wished he still cared like he had that day in the house she couldn't stop thinking about. But she didn't let herself dwell.
Tasha ascended the east wing stairs with practiced grace, balancing a tray of coffee. She had never been to this part of the house, it was a quiet, secluded space mostly used by Mr. Cornell or whichever family member sought solitude. She had taken over coffee duties after complaining about the girl who used to do it. Clinton had listened. She liked that he had listened.
She smiled faintly, remembering the day she'd teased him about a boy named Daniel, Clinton hadn't known she was joking, or that Daniel was his own friend. And he hadn't known the accusation she'd overheard from the girl at school, accusing her of cheating with Daniel. He had only heard her name.
Tasha opened the door with one hand, the other steadying the tray. The room greeted her with chilled air and the soft scent of sunflowers mixed with something darker, oud, expensive and layered. Clinton was on the couch in a green hoodie, legs crossed, phone in hand, utterly absorbed. He didn't notice her enter. He was too busy mediating a dispute between Daniel and David over something he couldn't quite bring himself to care about this early.
His mind felt dull. The mint from his morning toothpaste still lingered on his tongue. He realized, vaguely, that he no longer craved the coffee.
"Your coffee is here, Sire," Tasha said, her voice tinged with teasing emphasis. No response.
"I made you your coffee, Clinton," she said again, her chin tilted up now, defiant.
He looked up, finally. His eyes scanned her slowly, pausing at her chest, then dropping to her knees before drifting back to his phone. It was a glance that dismissed her. Tasha's stomach sank. She clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry, not to yell. He was the one avoiding her, why did she feel ashamed?
She turned to leave, heart heavy. For a week, he had refused to speak to her. No stolen moments, no quiet touches. She didn't understand why. She couldn't leave without knowing.
She stepped back, heart pounding, and snatched the phone from his hand.
Clinton looked up sharply, startled. She held the phone like proof, her gaze locked onto him with unblinking intensity.
He uncrossed his legs, adjusting in his seat, confused but curious.
"What's going on with you, Clinton?" she asked, her voice steadier than she expected. "What's going on with us?"
He didn't answer.
She placed the phone down on the coffee table between them. "Talk to me. We haven't spoken in days. And it's scaring me."
He exhaled, turning his face toward the curtain. "Can I have my phone back?"
"No," she said. "Not until you answer me. What are we? What am I to you?"
He rubbed his chin, silent.
Her voice broke slightly. "Do you love me?"
Clinton blinked slowly but said nothing.
Tasha stepped closer. "After what I heard at the party, what you said to your friends..." She swallowed hard. "That I was loose. That you didn't want a relationship. That I was just... someone you were using."
He flinched, just slightly.
"I need to know," she whispered. "Tell me the truth."
Tasha remembered crying herself to sleep that night. The words she overheard still clung to her like static, clinging, stinging. She looked at him now, praying she was wrong.
"Were you only using me?" she asked. "Because you thought I was easy?"
She shook her head. "You're the only one who's ever touched me. The only one I've ever kissed. I gave everything to you. I thought that meant something."
She was crying now, the tears she had held back rushing down.
Clinton finally looked at her. His face was unreadable. Somewhere between regret and indifference.
He didn't answer.
She exhaled shakily. "You're the only person I love," she said, barely above a whisper. "Why are you the one who keeps breaking my heart?"
Still, silence.
Then, finally: "My coffee," he said.