A sound, heels on polished floor, interrupted the silence. Gabriella turned to see a girl approaching: curvy, a few inches taller, eyes sharp and assessing. She looked Gabriella over with a kind of slow disdain.
Gabriella offered a polite smile. "I'm Gabriella. Clinton asked me to make his coffee."
The girl, unsmiling, crossed her arms. "Who are you?"
"I work at his apartment," Gabriella replied calmly. "He sent for me this morning."
The girl's brow furrowed. "Why would he need you when anyone here can make coffee?"
Gabriella didn't answer the question. She waited.
Finally, the girl waved a hand vaguely. "Kitchen's that way."
Gabriella glanced in the direction she pointed and saw nothing but paneled walls. "Would you mind showing me?" she asked, her tone warm but firm.
The girl gave a brittle smile. "Sure. No problem."
The kitchen was quiet, filled with gleaming countertops and copper accents. Gabriella moved with practiced ease, measuring and stirring. Behind her, the girl leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching.
Tasha.
She said nothing, but Gabriella could feel the weight of her gaze.
Then came the click of heels, another woman entered the kitchen. Older. Regal.
Ms. Aisha.
She gave Tasha a brief look, then turned her attention to Gabriella. "Hi, dear. What are you doing?"
Gabriella explained.
Ms. Aisha nodded, examining the tray Gabriella was preparing. "That's a lovely dress."
Gabriella smiled. "From my mum. For my birthday."
"Well, you wear it beautifully," she said, then added, "Clinton's in his room. He hasn't come down yet. He rarely does."
Tasha flinched.
"Oh, Tasha," Ms. Aisha said, glancing at her. "Would you show her the way?"
Tasha hesitated. "You're bringing it to his room?"
Gabriella blinked at the tone, then calmly answered, "That's where he is. If I don't take it now, it'll go cold."
Ms. Aisha, clearly sensing the tension, stepped in. "I'll make bacon and eggs, Tasha."
Tasha bit her lip but nodded. Then she turned and led Gabriella out of the kitchen.
At the base of the grand staircase, Tasha gestured. "After you."
Gabriella climbed carefully, balancing the tray, her fingers trembling slightly. The hallway upstairs was lined with chandeliers and velvet drapes. At a deep mahogany door, Tasha knocked three times.
The door swung open.
Clinton stood shirtless in the doorway, his chest sculpted, effortless. Gabriella's stomach flipped.
"Come in," he said, stepping aside.
She entered, her eyes adjusting to the warm, amber-toned room. It smelled of cedar and lavender. The bed was massive, the windows tall, the view stretching into the trees beyond. For a brief moment, she envied the life he lived.
Behind her, Tasha stood at the threshold. Clinton's eyes met hers. Something unspoken passed between them, then he shut the door.
Hard.
Tasha stood motionless in the hall. Her heart was thudding. She leaned against the wall, trying not to cry. He hadn't spoken to her in days. Not since the night he ignored the lemonade she had left on the kitchen table. He'd taken it and left, without a word.
Not even a glance.
Inside, Clinton sat down as Gabriella set the tray on the table between the cream-colored sofas.
"Just the way you like it," she said softly.
He picked up the cup and took a sip. "Perfect."
She clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for him to tell her to leave.
He turned, grabbing a device from the bed. "Wait for me downstairs."
She nodded and left without question.
•
Gabriella sat quietly in the parlor, sipping a cold glass of water. She had waited nearly three hours when Clinton finally descended the stairs, wearing a crisp white hoodie. He walked slowly, eyes fixed on his phone.
"I want my coffee at six every morning," he said without looking at her. "I'll double your pay."
Then, without transition: "How's your mum?"
Gabriella looked up, surprised by the softness in his voice. "She's being discharged soon."
He gave a small nod. "Good." Then: "You can go. The driver will take you."
She stood.
From a corner of the room, Tasha watched everything. The closeness. The conversation. The easy smile on Clinton's face.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she stormed over to the table, collecting the empty glasses with deliberate force. Clinton's eyes flicked to her briefly, then back to his phone.
"She's pretty," Tasha said suddenly.
He looked up.
"Slender. Pretty. Don't you think?"
He stared at her, expression unreadable.
"I could make coffee," she added with a shrug. "Why call her?"
There was a long pause.
Clinton stepped toward her. Tasha's breath hitched as his cologne filled the space between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then his voice came, quiet but cutting: "Who is David?"
She flinched.
His eyes never left her.
Tasha remembered. The boy in the hallway. The way he looked at her. The boy Vivian had accused her of sleeping with.
"I'm seeing him," she said, lifting her chin, daring him.
Clinton's face barely changed, but something in him shifted.
He looked at her as if she were already gone.
"Leave," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"I don't want to see you again."
The words hit her.
She opened her mouth, trying to undo it, trying to spin it as a joke.
He beat her to it. "If I do, your father loses his job."
Tasha gasped.
"I have the power to make that happen," Clinton said simply. "He's an employee. Just like you."
The cruelty wasn't in his tone, it was in how easily he said it.
He turned toward the west wing stairs. His footsteps echoed.
Tasha's legs gave out. She sank onto the couch, one she'd never been invited to sit on, heart pounding, eyes burning, everything unraveling.
******
A full day had passed without a glimpse of Clinton, and Tasha couldn't ignore the weight in her chest as she waited for the kettle to boil. The air was still, thick with silence. Mrs. Sandra had requested tea, though neither she nor her son had come downstairs for breakfast or lunch. Clinton had taken both meals in his room, delivered by Mrs. Rita. Mrs. Sandra, always particular, had asked only for fruit.
The kettle shrieked. Tasha moved quickly, pouring the hot water over the leaves and watching the steam rise. Even the simple act of making tea felt heavy today. She couldn't stop thinking about the last time she'd seen Clinton, the fight, the accusation, her fumbling confession. She regretted saying anything about Vivian's lie, especially because it wasn't true.
Was he jealous? Did he believe her?
She poured the tea into a porcelain cup and frowned. He'd told her to stay away from him. Worse, he'd threatened her father's job. That wound lingered more than any personal slight.
Clinton knew how to hurt. And he had.
She carried the tray upstairs, the tea sloshing gently in its cup. On the balcony, Mrs. Sandra sat beneath the late-afternoon light, her legs crossed elegantly, a phone pressed to her ear, her sunglasses catching the sun. The breeze teased strands of her dark hair.
"Your tea, ma'am," Tasha said, setting it down on the table.
Mrs. Sandra lowered her sunglasses and gave her a brief, tight smile. "Thank you, dear." She paused, then added, "Take these up to Clinton. He's been complaining of headaches again. The doctor's on his way, but this should help in the meantime."
Tasha took the pills, her fingers curling around the small silver packet. She hesitated. "Yes, ma'am."
"Tell him I'd like a word on the balcony. And come back after. I have a message for your father."
As Tasha turned, she caught the end of a phone call, Mrs. Sandra's voice dropping to a playful lilt, likely speaking to her eldest daughter. The moment felt strangely detached, like she was floating outside her own body.
By the time she reached Clinton's door, doubt had crept in. She hovered there, hand raised, unsure whether to knock.
•
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To be continued… ( Add to your collections and I would want to see your comments to know how you feel about this story. Next part is about to be …)