Mr. Cornell sat on the evergreen velvet sofa beneath the chandelier. The tall windows, framed by snow-colored curtains, were open to a dazzling cityscape. Electric lights from distant buildings shimmered just like stars. The private sitting room, tucked away on the easternmost floor of the mansion, was his sanctuary, quiet, expansive, and filled with shelves of mystery novels, journals, and the occasional paranormal tale.
It was here he came to read, to sip wine, to think. Sometimes, he hosted high-stakes meetings with business partners, discussing strategies to multiply fortunes for their generation and the next. But mostly, it was his place to be alone.
Clinton had only been to this room twice in all his years living in the house.
The staff had greeted him as he entered, nodding politely as he made his way up via the private elevator. His father had texted: Come upstairs. I'm waiting.
Clinton entered the room silently, his polished shoes tapping across the glossy floors. He found his father seated, flipping through a business journal, silver-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
For a moment, Clinton just stood there, unsure if he'd been noticed. He gave a small cough and sat on the couch opposite, waiting.
Mr. Cornell didn't look up right away, but when he did, his eyes landed hard on his son's face.
Clinton cleared his throat, fingers brushing the edge of his ear, trying not to flinch beneath the weight of his father's stare.
Finally, Mr. Cornell set the book down.
"Why did you sign off billions from the company account without informing anyone?" His voice was low but sharp.
Clinton let out a slow breath. "I wanted a penthouse," he said. "Something different. On the west side, by the sea. That land is, unparalleled. What's the point of having money if I can't use it?"
Mr. Cornell's jaw tightened. "And what's wrong with the penthouse in Parkland?"
Clinton shrugged. "I'm tired of it."
"Tired of it?" Mr. Cornell repeated with disbelief. "That building is one of the finest properties in the city. And you're tired of it?"
"I want something better. Something mine."
The silence that followed was heavier than any reprimand. Mr. Cornell leaned back slowly, staring at his son like he was a stranger.
"You mean to say my houses aren't good enough for you?"
Clinton didn't answer directly. "Let's call it an investment," he said instead. "Like stocks. A property to hold for the future."
Mr. Cornell studied him for a long time. "Since when do you invest?"
"You never give me the chance," Clinton replied smoothly.
Another long pause. Then his father sighed, picked up the book again, and said without looking at him, "You're not leaving this house until I say so. Tomorrow, Giddy will move your things back from that apartment."
Clinton stiffened. "You're serious?"
Mr. Cornell didn't reply.
Giddy was Mr. Cornell's most trusted aide, rescued off the streets years ago, adopted into the family's orbit, and fiercely loyal. He would do anything Mr. Cornell asked. Clinton knew this wasn't a bluff.
Mr. Cornell finally spoke again. "Send me the sketch of the penthouse design. If it fits into my financial plan, I'll consider backing it. You'll know my decision by next weekend."
He turned a page.
"And Clinton—don't ever withdraw that kind of money again without telling me or your mother. Understood?"
Clinton didn't respond. He watched his father return to reading as if nothing had happened. After a moment, he rose and quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Upstairs, he entered the bedroom, dim, silent, familiar in a way he hadn't missed. He flipped on the chandelier. Its multi-bulb design lit the space brightly, revealing every polished surface and ornate detail.
His thoughts drifted, to the girl. The one with the soft curls and flushed cheeks. The one he hadn't expected to see again, now studying at the same university.
The bedspread had been changed. Someone had removed the sheets he'd washed that night, the ones stained after they made love.
He remembered stuffing them hastily into the laundry machines at an indecent hour. It had shaken him more than he'd admit. The mess, the blood, the unexpected reality of it all. And yet...he couldn't stop thinking about her.
Clinton wandered to the window and pulled the curtain open. The city blinked below. He sighed deeply, wishing he were anywhere else but here.
He hoped his father would approve the building. If not, he'd have no choice but to find another way. And if it came down to it, he'd pressure Mrs. Hillary, the family's long-standing accountant. She was paid handsomely. A few threats wouldn't be out of bounds.
He peeled off his shirt and dropped it to the floor, collapsing back into the freshly made bed.
He was still sitting there, long-faced and restless, when a knock came at the door.
"Dinner is served, sir," came Rita's voice gently. The housekeeper had likely been sent by his mother, her polite summons disguised as concern.
Clinton ignored the voice. Eventually, the footsteps faded.
Later, after showering and throwing on a pair of striped blue lounge pants, he wandered downstairs. The house was quiet, grand and still. He helped himself to a bottle of red wine from the cabinet. Four glasses in, the room began to tilt.
That's when he heard a sound.
From the kitchen.
Tasha swore under her breath as the fork clattered to the floor. She hadn't expected anyone to be awake, let alone him. Her heart raced.
She bent to pick up the cutlery and turned, only to freeze.
Clinton stood at the entrance, shirtless, arms folded, eyes locked on her.
She almost dropped the cup she was holding. "What... are you doing here?"
No one had told her he was home.
Tasha stepped toward the door, hugging her arms to hide her chest. Her nightwear clung tightly to her body, and she cursed herself for wearing something so revealing.
"Please, Clinton. Let me go to my room," she murmured, flustered. "It's late."
He didn't move. Just smiled faintly.
"Or mine," he whispered.
Her eyes widened. She couldn't believe it. After all he'd done, ignoring her, humiliating her, he had the nerve to...
"I'll scream," she said, her voice breaking. "I swear I will."
Clinton's smile deepened.
"Then scream," he whispered, stepping closer.
His breath touched her cheek.
And this time, when he kissed her, it was not out of drunken impulse. It was deliberate. Slow. And far more dangerous than before.