Note to Readers:

This book is intended for those who can approach heavy, intense subjects without becoming overly emotional or upset. It deals with tough situations that may be unsettling, so please proceed with caution if you're sensitive to themes of betrayal, manipulation, or injustice.

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Samuel stretched out on the couch, reached for his wine glass, and rolled his eyes as Mr. Corallo launched into yet another lecture. The man's voice was background noise now, just another thread in the tapestry of expectations Samuel had long stopped caring about.

"Get good grades," "Finish school," "Take your place at Nickel Boron." Always the same speech. Always from someone who had no idea who he was.

He tapped his foot against the opposite knee, leg bouncing. Still in his pajama pants and an expensive silk shirt, he had barely hung up from a call with his mother, vacationing in Vegas, probably losing money she hadn't earned. She'd delivered the usual script: The company needs you, Samuel. Be ready to take over from your aging father.

Right.

Bonnie Boron loved reminding him how grateful she was to have him, how lucky they were to have someone to carry the family name. A name bought with marriage and maintained with appearances.

He shifted on the cushion. Mr. Corallo, oblivious to Samuel's disdain, droned on, flipping papers and mispronouncing half the terminology.

"You mean basic training," Samuel corrected coolly.

Mr. Corallo adjusted his glasses. "Yes—yes, of course. My apologies." He cleared his throat. "As I was saying, Nickel Boron's valuation has surpassed a trillion dollars, making it the premier oil empire globally. Your father expects you—"

"To care," Samuel muttered, swirling the wine in his glass. "And yet, I don't."

Corallo faltered but kept going. He always did. Hired to prepare Samuel for succession, the man was relentless. But Samuel didn't want any of it. Corporate legacies, executive meetings, oil markets, it all sounded like a death sentence dressed in polished shoes and power ties.

And Corallo, bless him, was being paid a fortune to make sure Samuel didn't tank the family business.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Samuel said. "You talk like a dying engine."

"I—I'm simply doing my job," Corallo stammered.

"How much is the old man paying you?" Samuel asked lazily. "Whatever it is, I'll triple it if you promise never to show your face again."

"I can't accept that."

Samuel tilted his head. "When was the last time you had a haircut?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your collar's stained. Shoes aren't polished. And you speak like you haven't had sleep since 2003." He smirked. "Got a daughter? Tall? Sharp? Speaks fluently? I could date her for two days. She wouldn't regret it."

Corallo stiffened. "I have two daughters, both older than you."

"Perfect. I like them older."

"Master Samuel, your father would be—"

"More disappointed than usual? I doubt it." Samuel tossed back the last drop of wine and let the empty glass fall onto the table with a clink. "Anyway, I'm done."

"We still have thirty minutes left in the session," Corallo pressed. "It's important that we cover—"

"The company," Samuel said with mocking finality. "Nickel Boron, the sacred empire. Save the sermon, Padre. You're fired."

Corallo blinked. "Only your father can—"

"You're dismissed," Samuel snapped, already walking toward the stairs.

"You'll regret this," the tutor called after him. "Your father won't be pleased."

"Neither will my wine cellar," Samuel muttered. "Shut up and leave. That's an order."

⸻

Vivian stared at her phone, scrolling again.

She couldn't stop thinking about them, the five impossibly perfect boys who had walked into the bar like they owned it. All laughter and swagger, their tailored jackets catching the low lights like gold. She'd watched from behind the counter, wishing she'd been the one serving them instead of Clata, the redhead with the fake laugh and fake charm.

Clata always seemed to get the best tables, and the manager's attention. Vivian had her theories, but she kept them to herself.

She especially couldn't stop thinking about Harrison Charley. That voice. That smirk. That disinterest, which somehow only made him hotter.

"Ugh, he's too handsome," she muttered.

"Who?" Anna asked, looking up from her notebook.

Vivian startled, she hadn't realized Anna was beside her on the bed.

Anna snatched the phone. "Harrison," she said knowingly. "Why am I not surprised? You practically daydream his name."

Vivian rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.

"Why don't you just talk to him at school?" Anna asked.

Vivian scoffed. "Yeah, that'll go well. 'Hi Harrison, I watch you like a Netflix drama and think you're too pretty to function.' Not creepy at all."

Anna laughed and turned her attention back to the mess of papers in her lap. Her mind wandered to earlier that day, leaving campus, a luxury car had passed and someone had tossed a plastic bottle at her. Inside: Daniel Gundi, the one who looked like a sculpture and acted like the world belonged to him.

He hadn't even blinked.

Their fathers' faces were on every magazine cover. Property empires, oil empires, stock empires. And then there was Vivian, who was very much not an empire.

"Why are they everything a girl wants?" Vivian sighed.

"They're rude," Anna replied without looking up.

"They're rich."

"They're obnoxious."

"They're also hot," Vivian said, dreamy again.

"And you're obsessed."

Vivian didn't argue. She had fallen for all five of them the moment she arrived on campus, and apparently, she wasn't the only one. They were legends. Untouchable. Worshipped.

"Anyway," Anna muttered, "they don't even top their classes."

"They don't have to. That's what their money's for."

Anna rolled her eyes and changed the subject. "Mum made apple pie. Kitchen. Want some?"

"Hell yes!" Vivian grinned.

Anna's mother baked one every Saturday before returning to her nursing job three hours away. Her father had died before she was born. Anna was used to being self-sufficient, and Vivian knew it.

"Tomorrow's Friday," Vivian said. "Let's go out. My treat."

Anna hesitated.

"No excuses," Vivian insisted. "No brooding. Just us and some poor decisions."

Anna smiled faintly. Maybe poor decisions weren't such a bad idea.

******

Clinton woke to a chill. The sheets, though expensive, clung to him with an unwelcome coldness. He yawned and tossed the covers aside, rising from his bed with the sluggishness of someone whose body was awake, but mind was not. Today was important. He was set to tour the acres of land he'd handpicked for his future penthouse, a space he intended to craft into perfection.

The penthouse he currently occupied had only been his for week, purchased on impulse for its ocean view. Clinton had a weakness for high places, for glass and sky and the illusion of escape. He'd arranged everything: the helicopter was likely waiting on the roof; the architects were briefed. This wouldn't just be a residence, it would be his statement.

He padded barefoot to the thermostat, switching off the air conditioner that had run too long. His throat was dry, his body craved warmth, caffeine. He rang the bell.

A soft knock answered.

"Come in," he said, voice low.

A woman in a crisp blue uniform entered, her eyes respectfully downcast.

"Coffee," Clinton instructed.

"Yes, sir," she replied quickly.

"With milk. Hot, and desirable."

"Of course."

When she left, Clinton reached for his phone. A wave of missed calls lit up the screen. Last night had been a blur, he'd gone out with Harrison and David, but bailed early without a word. Crowds drained him. He didn't need to explain anymore; his friends knew the pattern. He preferred solitude over noise, stillness over chaos.

He smiled faintly at Harrison's texts, one full of mock threats, the other checking in. David hadn't messaged. He rarely did. Clinton scrolled until he saw his mother's number. Multiple missed calls. Unusual.

He hesitated, then called her.

The line clicked.

"You actually called back," came her voice, sharp and disbelieving. "Where are you? You had us worried sick. Your friends called me. I didn't know what to tell them."

Clinton closed his eyes, resting his head back against the pillow.

"And now," she continued, "your father's back. Dinner tonight. Don't be late."

She didn't pause for breath. "And what is this I'm hearing about the money? You took a ridiculous amount from the company account, for what? Another property? Clinton, we have five houses. The Long Island estate is half-empty."

He didn't respond. Her voice grated, not because she was wrong, but because she never knew why he did what he did. She never asked.

"You act like the world owes you," she snapped. "Stop making decisions based on whims. You're not a child."

"Are you finished?" he said, his voice flat.

"I'm done. Be home by eight." She hung up.

Clinton stared at the phone, the dial tone echoing longer than it should have. Then a soft knock broke the silence.

"Your coffee, sir."

"Come in."

The housekeeper returned, placing the coffee carefully on the table before bowing and leaving. Clinton took it to the window, staring at the ocean as he drank. The heat of the coffee thawed the fog in his mind.

This day, he knew, would be long.

His phone rang . David.

⸻

Later That Afternoon

"Don't sit like that on my couch."

The voice sliced through the quiet. Gabriella jumped, startled. She hadn't heard anyone come in.

The sitting room was sun-dimmed, elegant in white. Clinton stood at the threshold, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Gabriella scrambled to her feet, flustered.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I was just—"

"Who the hell are you?"

She faltered. "My mother... she works here. As domestic staff. I was just waiting for her." Her voice was small. She reached for her glass of juice, but in her panic, it slipped, shattering on the floor and staining the pristine white rug with red.

Clinton's jaw tightened.

"Get out. And tell me who your mother is—she's fired."

"No—please!" Gabriella dropped to her knees, reaching for the spill, her eyes wide with fear. "It was my fault. Please don't punish her."

Clinton stared down at her, unmoved. "You irritate me. I don't take back my words."

He pressed a button. "Security!"

*******

Clinton's eyes landed first on the mansion, its pristine white façade gleaming under the afternoon sun, before shifting to the uniformed security guard swinging open the wrought-iron gates. The sleek, obsidian car he drove, his father's birthday gift, purred gently as it eased forward onto the estate. His gaze drifted over the cars nestled inside the garage until it stopped on a cherry-red convertible with only two seats, tucked near the far wall. Clinton lingered on it a moment too long, admiring the clean lines, the unapologetic boldness. It was elegant. Tempting. Possessable.

He knew himself well: when something caught his attention, he had to own it.

A sharp knock startled him. He turned toward the window, where the guard, Ronald, a fixture in the Cornell household for nearly two decades, stood waiting, his brow furrowed in concern. Clinton sighed and lowered the tinted glass.

"Your family's been expecting you," Ronald said gently.

To the Cornells, Ronald was more than staff; he was familiar, steady, and silently devoted. He'd watched Clinton grow from a boy into the young man now seated behind the wheel. He had, quietly and privately, taken a liking to him.

Especially when his daughter, Tasha, first met the boy.

She had been running an errand for the cook, fetching bread and eggs, when she'd found Clinton alone in the kitchen, sipping juice with one hand buried in the pocket of his grey joggers. He'd glanced at her briefly, eyes cool, appraising, before turning back to his phone, answering a call, and walking away without a word.

She hadn't forgotten that moment. Or him.

"Thank you," Clinton murmured now, flashing Ronald a brief smile. The older man stepped away, satisfied, and Clinton took a breath before stepping out of the car, adjusting his sunglasses with care. His movements were practiced. Detached.

He walked the familiar path through the garden toward the west wing entrance, his thoughts already on the evening ahead. He regretted canceling plans with his friends, David, Harrison, Daniel, and Samuel. They were the only ones who didn't ask him to be someone else.

Inside, the parlor felt different. New chairs in muted green had replaced the old chalk-white ones. A chandelier, untouched and unlit, hung like a relic from a forgotten era. Only the painting on the east wall remained, the one with streaks of lightning caught mid-bolt in a violent, storm-dark sky.

He stepped further in, resisting the urge to retreat.

Earlier that day, he'd video called the others. They'd teased him for bailing. Laughed. Forgiven. Clinton promised not to disappear again, knowing they didn't quite believe him, but also knowing they wouldn't leave. The bond between them was ironclad, forged in boyhood.

"Are you just going to stand there? Come up!" a voice called from above.

Jose.

His sister descended the stairs, her smile warm and familiar. As always, she carried herself like a woman with no regrets, sharp heels, bobbed hair, rose-pink lips. She embraced him, tightly, tenderly.

"You were missed," she whispered, and though Clinton didn't respond, his hands lingered at her back a beat too long. Her presence grounded him. Reminded him of childhood. Of things that didn't need to be said aloud.

"Is Father home yet?" he asked, voice low.

"And Mum?" Jose replied instead, eyes soft. "Call her. She's your mother, Clinton."

He hesitated. "What else has she been telling you?"

"She says you're stubborn," Jose laughed, "but that she loves you more than anything." She slipped her arm into his. "Come on. They're waiting."

For a moment, Clinton allowed himself to enjoy the warmth of her presence, until she leaned in close and whispered, "Tell me what cologne you're wearing. You smell incredible."

He blinked. Was that... flirtation? It lingered, uncertain, in the air between them as she pulled away and walked into the dining room.

Their father, silver-haired and smiling, stood to greet him. He looked healthy. Content. Successful. The kind of man who spoke in clear expectations: Distinction. Legacy. Inheritance.

Clinton embraced him without hesitation.

The dining table was immaculate, set for celebration. His mother, Mrs. Sandra Cornell, avoided his gaze, instead rearranging plates as though it might rearrange her disappointment. He noticed her fingers, delicate, restless.

"I expected this from you," she said, when he chose a seat far from hers. Her voice was quiet but edged with frustration.

Daisy, the eldest sister, entered the room just like a storm in heels. "Let him be, Mum," she said lightly. "He's probably just moody."

Daisy was brilliant, commanding, and unapologetically ambitious, a government official in charge of economic policy. Her path was luminous, enviable. She ruffled Clinton's hair and gave him a long, affectionate hug.

"Mum made your favorite," she whispered.

He blinked. Did he even have a favorite? He mostly ate out. But the care in her voice stilled him. He nodded.

As they ate, talk turned to achievements, his father's business trip, Daisy's growing power in political circles, Jose's stories of law firms and boyfriends and weddings-in-planning.

And then, the voice he had been waiting for:

"You're not leaving tonight," Sandra said suddenly. "Your room's already prepared."

Clinton clenched his jaw. He wanted to go back to the penthouse, to the ocean view, the silence, the control. But he said nothing.

His mother continued, as though reading his thoughts. "As manager of Cornell Industries, I'm informed when funds leave the company account."

A veiled threat. Clinton felt it. But he didn't flinch. If his father knew how much he'd taken to purchase the penthouse, there would be more than awkward tension at the table. It was meant to be an investment, at least, that's what he would say if pressed.

He stood abruptly.

"I need water."

He left the table.

In the kitchen, Clinton drank in silence, staring through the window at the driveway below. The flowers had bloomed, he hadn't noticed them before. Maybe he didn't care to. The stillness outside contrasted with the tension in his chest. He would stay the night. Not by choice, but strategy.

Upstairs, Tasha stood trembling outside his room.

The cleaner had asked her to tidy it, just a quick favor. She hadn't known Clinton would return so soon. Heart pounding, she let herself in, clutching a bottle of sanitizer and a brush. She was wearing a summer dress, thin and backless. The room swallowed her whole. Everything gleamed, from the soft curtains to the impossibly large bed.

She felt impossibly small.

She drifted to the window and drew the drapes open. Outside, she saw her father on the phone. Inside, the room felt like a dream. She traced her fingers along the smooth duvet, the heavy silk, the framed portrait of Clinton, his eyes, mouth, jawline rendered in precise charcoal.

They would look good together, she thought, blushing at her own foolishness.

Then, footsteps. She froze.

She barely had time to hide in the closet before the door opened. Clinton entered, unaware. He closed the door, drew the curtains, pulled off his shirt, and replied to a message from his friend Daniel, smiling to himself.

Tasha held her breath.

She could smell his cologne in the air. She could see the way he moved, fluid, confident. And then, he walked toward the closet.

No, no, no.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The door creaked. Light slipped through. She pressed herself into the corner, praying he wouldn't notice her.

He did.

"What are you doing in here?"

His voice was quiet. Not angry. Just... surprised.

She met his eyes and pulled the hem of her sundress tighter, her voice faltering.

"I—I'm sorry, sir. I swear I didn't—"

But the sentence broke. Her breath hitched. His gaze had dropped.

She didn't need to look to know where he was staring.

*******

Tasha looked away the moment Clinton's eyes met hers. Her breath caught in her throat as he stepped closer, the air around them tightening. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, so close their chests nearly touched. Her thoughts scattered, her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn't think. Could barely breathe.

His voice was low. Measured.

"What do you want?"

She flinched, startled by the question. What did she want? His affection? His attention? Or something she couldn't name?

Her gaze met his.

"Your love," she whispered.

Clinton tilted his head slightly, studying her. A slow grin tugged at the corners of his lips. For a moment, she thought he might say something kind. Instead, he bit his bottom lip, amused, and let his gaze drift over her, from her flushed cheeks to the messy strands of hair falling around her face.

"You're beautiful," he said, brushing a curl behind her ear.

Tasha inhaled, overwhelmed by his nearness, by the scent of his cologne. Her heart fluttered, but then, his tone shifted.

"But you're unkempt."

The word hit her like a slap. Her hands instinctively smoothed the hem of her dress. Shame burned hot in her chest. She hadn't expected that. Not from him. Not when she'd imagined this moment so differently.

He stepped back slightly, still watching her with quiet detachment.

"You hid in my closet for love?" he asked, the disbelief in his voice tinged with something else, disdain, maybe.

"I was here to clean," she replied quietly.

He raised a brow. "With the brush on the floor and sanitizer still on the dresser?" He smirked. "So it was you who left my door unlocked—and the curtains wide open?"

"I was still cleaning," she said, her voice cracking. The heat behind her eyes grew stronger, and she turned away, blinking fast. He didn't need to see her cry.

Clinton lifted a hand, waving her off. "Never mind. Just go." He turned toward the bathroom. "Close the door properly on your way out."

Tasha's fingers trembled as she bent to retrieve the dusting brush. She caught a final breath of his scent before slipping into the hallway and shutting the door behind her.

The tears came the moment she turned the corner.

She kept her head down, the corridor blurring. Clinton's words echoed in her mind, unkempt. Her face crumpled, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, willing herself not to fall apart.

A voice stopped her.

"Are you alright?"

Tasha startled. A tall girl with striking red hair stood just a step away, blocking the light. Her voice was kind, her expression filled with concern.

It was Jose, Clinton's sister.

Tasha nodded quickly, too ashamed to meet her eyes.

"Are you sure?" Jose stepped closer, her tone gentle.

"I'm fine," Tasha lied, trying to muster a smile.

Jose studied her for a moment. "Who are you?" she asked softly.

Tasha cleared her throat, hoping it wouldn't betray her. "Tasha. The gatekeeper's daughter."

"Oh." Jose's face brightened slightly. "My mother speaks well of you. Your father's a good man."

Tasha gave another nod, her fingers gripping the brush too tightly.

Jose's eyes narrowed. "Is something wrong with your face?"

"No, nothing," Tasha murmured, but her voice was unsteady.

Jose didn't believe her. "You saw my brother, didn't you?"

Tasha hesitated. "No," she said too quickly.

Jose's eyes dropped to the brush and sanitizer still in Tasha's hands. "You were cleaning. Where?"

Tasha wanted to run. "His room," she said, barely audible.

"Oh, is he in?" Jose perked up. "I've been looking everywhere."

Tasha swallowed. "I don't think so."

But it was too late. Jose had already begun walking.

"You'll come with me, right? You have his key."

Tasha hesitated, then followed, heart sinking. Her steps were slow, as though each one dragged her deeper into something she couldn't control.

At the door, she patted her pocket, empty.

"The key," she whispered. "I left it inside."

Jose frowned. "How did the door lock, then?"

Before Tasha could answer, Jose tried a few passcodes with no success. She turned back. "Did you lock it?"

Tasha panicked. "Don't you think your brother did? I mean... doors don't lock themselves."

Jose knocked—once, twice, then again. Silence.

"Maybe he's asleep," Tasha said quickly.

Jose sighed. "I wanted to say goodbye before our flight. But I'll call him instead."

She turned to go, and Tasha exhaled in relief.

Then a voice stopped her after Jose had left .

"You. Come back."

Tasha froze.