After his bath, Thompson descended the stairs slowly, towel still around his neck, water dripping faintly from the ends of his hair. There was something unsettled in his eyes, a storm brewing quietly behind his calm face.
"Chantel!" he called out.
I was in my room folding clothes when I heard his voice echo through the hallway.
"Yes sir!" I answered quickly, running down the stairs.
The moment I reached him, I noticed the lines on his forehead. He looked worried… bothered… like his thoughts had been wrestling with him the entire time.
"Did anybody come here while I was away?" he asked, eyes fixed on mine.
"No sir," I replied honestly, still confused by the urgency in his voice.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. "How long have you been at home?"
"I've been here since morning," I said softly.
"And what time did my girlfriend come back?"
I paused.
Girlfriend?
Not wife — at least not today.
My heart skipped. Something was definitely wrong.
"She came back in the afternoon," I answered.
"And since she came back in the afternoon, where have you been?" he asked again.
"I've been in the sitting room, sir… except for when I went inside the room for a short while."
Thompson exhaled deeply, walked to the TV stand, picked up the remote, and switched on the screen. It had been a long time since he bothered checking the security system manually, but today, something pushed him to.
He scrolled through the camera footage carefully… the living room… the gate… the hallway… nothing.
Not a single stranger had entered the house.
He stopped the footage, turned off the TV, and sat down with a relieved breath, rubbing his forehead.
He picked up his phone, scrolling aimlessly, trying to calm the storm inside him.
A few seconds later, a car engine sounded outside. David drove in.
He stepped into the house with his usual boyish smile, but the moment he saw his brother's expression, the smile faded slightly.
"Bro, how far?" David asked, shaking Thompson's hand and dropping into the seat beside him.
"I'm okay," Thompson said. "Just got home."
"You went out?" Thompson asked with raised brows.
"Yes, I went to get a few things," David replied casually. "Anyway, back to what we were discussing…"
Thompson looked at him. "Hmm?"
David cleared his throat. "Bro… I like Chantel. But I don't know how to tell her. I don't want to scare her away. Do you have any advice?"
Thompson chuckled softly.
"Bro, you don't need to tell me — I already knew," he said. "But listen… you need to take it slow. That girl is still fragile. Don't rush her or she might start avoiding you."
David nodded quickly. "Exactly my point! That's what I'm afr—"
Before he could finish his sentence, footsteps echoed from upstairs.
Sylvia.
She walked toward them with a sharp, angry expression… like someone who had just been insulted in her dreams. Her eyes went from Thompson to David — and the fierceness in her gaze was enough to make anyone uncomfortable.
"What are you still doing here?" she snapped at David, her voice cold.
David blinked, shocked. "I—"
"Get. Out," she said, raising her voice.
David lifted both hands in surrender and stood up quietly. Thompson was frozen in shock at his girlfriend's sudden hostility.
"What is wrong with you?" he demanded. "Must you be rude to everybody — including my brother?"
"Oh please," Sylvia said, throwing her bag on the couch and sitting down.
"Chantel!" she barked.
I ran toward her immediately.
"I'm here, Miss Sylvia."
She scanned me from head to toe, her eyes burning.
Then she gave a cold, mocking laugh.
"Just get out of my sight," she hissed. "I don't even know why I called you."
I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me again.
"Hold on!"
I froze.
She stood up slowly.
"Did you just roll your eyes at me?"
I gasped. "Roll my eyes? At who?"
Her accusation struck me like a slap. Why would I do such a thing?
Thompson quickly grabbed Sylvia's arm, pulling her back slightly.
"Sylvia, what is wrong with you?" he said, voice low but firm.
David rushed to my side and held my hand gently.
"Chantel, come. Let's go," he whispered. "No need for drama."
I nodded, swallowing my tears, and followed him outside the sitting room toward the open air.
Behind us, Sylvia was still breathing heavily, her anger uncontrollable.
"You see that?" she said to Thompson, pointing in my direction as if I had committed a crime. "You see how things always turn against me?"
Thompson rubbed his temples.
"Baby, what did this girl do to you?" he asked softly. "Because honestly… I don't understand."
"You will never see anything wrong with her!" Sylvia yelled. "Why? Because she's the almighty daughter of your late mother!"
That was the wrong button.
Thompson's face changed instantly — anger flashing across his eyes.
"Sylvia," he said in a low voice, "not again. Please. Don't start this today."
She hissed loudly and stormed toward the staircase, her footsteps loud and sharp like slaps on the marble floor.
Thompson watched her climb the stairs, every step she took pulling him deeper into his unresolved thoughts.
Something was wrong with her.
Very wrong.
And he could feel it in his bones.