Samuel sat back in the leather armchair, exhaling loudly as his father's voice continued berating him over the phone. He pulled the device away from his ear, stared at the screen for a moment, then placed it back reluctantly.
"Why would you say that to him?" Mr. Flores Boron barked. "What were you thinking?"
The old man had spent the last hour listening to Mr. Corallo's grievances, an esteemed tutor, now retired early due to Samuel's insolence. It was the first time in his long career he'd ever terminated a student.
"I told you," Samuel said coolly. "He's lying."
"Why would he lie?" his father snapped. "You've crossed the line, Samuel. I didn't raise you to be like this."
Samuel rolled his eyes, shifting restlessly in his seat. This wasn't the first time he'd endured a lecture, but the anger in his father's voice felt heavier today, more final.
Mr. Flores Boron was discharged from the hospital two days ago and is still recovering.
Samuel glanced toward the window, his reflection faint in the glass. A part of him felt something, shame, maybe, but it was quickly buried.
"I'm very disappointed in you," his father said, quieter now. "If you have any decency left, you'll meet with him. Apologize. Or I swear, Samuel, I'll take you out of the will. Your sister will inherit everything."
Samuel laughed, low and sharp. "Oh really? That's your threat?" He leaned back, stretching. "Give it to a beggar on the street. I'm not apologizing to that man."
He ended the call.
For a moment, the room was silent. Then his gaze landed on a speck of dust on the velvet sofa. Irritated, he stood and crossed to the phone. Within minutes, the cleaner arrived, gloved hands clasped, eyes downcast.
Samuel didn't look at him directly. "Why is there dust on my couch?"
The man hesitated. "I—I'm sorry, sire. I'll clean it again if you'd like."
Samuel folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "Do you even like your job?"
The cleaner blinked. "I do, sire. It feeds my family."
"Doesn't seem like it," Samuel said coldly. He pointed to the speck, a thing so small it could vanish with a breath. "This—this tells me you don't care."
The man bowed slightly. "Please, sire. I'll fix it now."
"No," Samuel snapped. "Leave."
As the cleaner turned to obey, Samuel added, "Wait. You're really leaving?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Take the dirt—and your pride—and get out."
The man didn't look back.
Alone again, Samuel sank onto the bed, fingers tapping at his phone. Harrison's birthday was coming up, he scrolled through gift options. A car? A watch? Sneakers? Always the usual.
He was still debating when a knock came at the door.
He ignored it.
Five knocks later, he sighed and stood. The maid stood stiffly in the hall.
"You have a visitor, sire," she said without looking at him.
He frowned. "Who?"
"She said her name is Rachael."
His heart dropped.
Rachael.
It had been a year.
Without a word, he shut the door. For twelve minutes, he stood at the window, one hand gripping the back of the chair. Finally, he descended the stairs.
She was waiting on the white couch. The television murmured in the background, forgotten. She stood when she saw him, eyes wide, hope and hurt written in every line of her face.
She hadn't changed much. Still graceful. Still lovely. But he felt nothing.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said flatly.
"I shouldn't have," she whispered.
He stepped back when she reached for him. "Don't touch me."
She froze.
"I only agreed to see you because of what we used to have," he said. "So—why are you here?"
Rachael fidgeted with her hands, her voice soft. "I couldn't get over you. I tried. I even left the country. But it didn't work."
Samuel moved to the single armchair beside the artificial vase of roses. He rested a finger against his chin. "I thought you moved on."
"I tried," she said. Her voice cracked. "But I love you. I still dream about you. About us. That has to mean something."
He studied her tear-filled eyes. "It means you're still stuck in the past," he said.
"You don't understand—"
"There's nothing to understand," he interrupted. "I got tired of you. Seeing you cry just makes you less attractive."
Her breath caught. The tears broke loose.
"No, you didn't mean that," she said, voice trembling. "How can you say that?"
He didn't respond.
Rachael's tears reminded her of her childhood, how crying had always won her comfort. But Samuel wasn't moved. He stood, already turning away.
"Just leave my house," he said. "And don't come back."
She sobbed behind him as he climbed the stairs, already retreating into the silence of his room.
—-
Gabriella smiled faintly, recalling Clinton's call. She had been on the phone with her mother, talking about test results and missed prescriptions, when his name flashed on the screen. He'd called twice before she could switch over, then reprimanded her for not answering immediately.
He knew she was on another call—he had kept ringing anyway.
She ended the call with her mother gently, whispered a few hopeful words, then answered him.
She didn't hesitate to get ready.
Soon she was seated in the back of his car, the windows tinted dark against the morning sun. The soft hum of classical music, the hush of cool air brushing her cheeks, these small comforts quieted her nerves.
Gabriella had brought his favorite coffee blend, not trusting whether his kitchen had it stocked. She stepped out as the driver opened the door for her, catching her breath at the sight of the mansion.
It was magnificent.
The gatekeeper greeted her with a brief nod and motioned her inside. Each step toward the front door felt deliberate. The building towered over her, its grandeur almost theatrical. A lingering chill from the car clung to her arms.
When she stepped into the foyer, the sheer beauty of the interior struck her dumb. Chandeliers glowed above, a golden sheen over artfully arranged furniture. A large painting, lit from above, held her gaze. Every detail was excessive, exquisite.
She hesitated, unsure where to sit.