Clinton woke up feeling cold and shivery. He yawned and threw the covers off his body. Today was the day he'd set aside to inspect the acres of land he was planning to purchase for his dream penthouse. He'd bought the current one he was staying in just a week ago—mainly because it had an ocean view, something he couldn't resist. Clinton had always loved penthouses. They were his taste, his kind of building. He'd already planned everything for the sight-seeing trip. The helicopter and its pilots were probably waiting for him and his friends. The architects were ready to discuss the structure of the building. He'd made it clear to them that this penthouse was where he was going to live, so it had to be nothing short of perfect.
Clinton yawned again and walked over to switch off the air conditioner, which had kept him cold throughout the night. He cleared his throat, realizing he was in desperate need of a hot cup of coffee to start the day. Rubbing his eyes slightly, he walked over to the bell and rang it for the housekeeper. It wasn't long before he heard the soft knock on his door. Clinton smiled to himself, appreciating the diligence. He wrapped his hands into the warmth of his jacket pockets, crossed his legs on the bed, and said in a low voice, "Come in."
A chubby lady in a blue uniform appeared. She had her hands clasped behind her back, waiting patiently for instructions. Her eyes didn't meet his—she kept them fixed on the soft white fabric of the carpet beneath her feet.
"Coffee," Clinton said simply.
"Sure, Sire. Right away, Sire," she responded hurriedly, turning to leave.
"It should be hot and desirable. Milk is a top priority," Clinton added. He didn't want the way he liked his coffee to be mistaken. He was particular—he liked what he liked and hated what he hated.
"Of course, Mister," she said, her hand reaching for the door handle.
Clinton could still hear her footsteps as she walked away from his room. He shook his head, then picked up his phone. As soon as he entered his password, a list of missed calls popped up on the screen. Clinton had gone to the nightclub with Harrison and David the previous night, but he'd left alone, going straight to bed without eating or even changing out of his clothes. He remembered that after about an hour at the club, he'd had enough. The crowd had been too much, the noise unbearable. He'd left and gone straight to bed, no explanation. His tongue tasted of wine, the lingering aftertaste of the night.
His fingers scrolled through the call list and he saw missed calls from Harrison and David. He wasn't surprised—he had ghosted them again. It was a pattern. He'd done it before—once at an event hosted by Samuel's mother, twice at his own party, and again at David's birthday party. He'd left two hours after it started and hadn't bothered to call or text anyone. He didn't want to ruin their fun, especially since he knew he couldn't stay in a crowded place for too long. Clinton preferred space and solitude.
He smiled at Harrison's messages, one swearing to deal with him the next time they saw each other, the other asking where he was and how he was doing. David hadn't texted yet. He rarely did. In fact, David had missed more calls than anyone. Even more than Clinton's mother, though she rarely called. If she did, it was usually once or twice at most. They weren't close, and Clinton wasn't sure they ever would be. He glanced at the number of missed calls from her and wondered why she'd called so much. Was it to ask why he'd bought the apartment? He'd withdrawn a large amount of money for the property purchase and made sure the paperwork was done. His mother had set the rules about how the money should be moved, and she had to approve it. Or maybe she was calling to remind him that school would be starting again soon. He wouldn't be surprised.
His thumb hovered over her number as he dialed. The phone rang once, then her familiar voice greeted him. He hesitated before putting the phone to his ear, wondering if he was ready to hear the voice of the woman who gave birth to him.
"I'm very shocked you called back. I didn't think you would. Where are you? You had me and your sisters worried sick yesterday. Your friends called, asking if I knew where you were. How would I know, when you always do whatever you want?" Clinton rolled his eyes, letting out a hiss. He trusted his gut that he would have hung up if she hadn't added that his father was back from his trip and wanted to have dinner with the family.
"You wouldn't want me to tell him that you took a large sum of money from the company account and wasted it on something useless. We already have houses, Clinton—three in uptown, two in the villa. The estate on Long Island isn't even fully occupied…" She was scolding him now. Her voice was tight with frustration. Mrs. Cornell, the company manager, knew where every penny went, and if any money was removed from the account, it would be reported to her. "What's wrong with you? You always do what you think is right when it's not. Why did you buy that apartment? Fine, if you want to be alone all the time, but stop acting on your assumptions."
"Are you done?" Clinton asked, his voice calm but flat. He wasn't in the mood to argue, and his forehead was pounding. He really didn't want to waste any energy on this.
"You should stop spending money just because you're fortunate enough to have it. I'm done. Be home for dinner tonight," she snapped before hanging up. Clinton felt a twinge of regret for not ending the call first. He knew he'd have to go back to the house he'd been avoiding, but he didn't want to risk being grounded. That was the last thing he needed right now. His plans for the penthouse couldn't be put on hold.
Just as he was thinking this, the doorbell rang.
"Your coffee, sir," came the voice almost immediately after the bell.
"Yeah, come in," Clinton replied. The door opened, and the same lady who'd left a few minutes ago entered, carrying a cup of coffee on a tray.
"Just as you requested," she said professionally, placing the cup on the table in the center of the room. Clinton nodded in thanks, and she bowed slightly before leaving.
Clinton stood from his bed and walked to the table where the coffee waited. He gazed out the window at the ocean, watching the breeze stir the water in rhythmic patterns—a sight he never tired of. He took a sip of the warm drink. It was good—he couldn't deny that. Four gulps later, it was gone. He let out a satisfied sigh. The coffee had done its job; it always helped clear his head. Still, he knew this was going to be a rough day. It already felt like it wouldn't end well.
His phone beeped, and he immediately answered.
"David!" he said as soon as he saw the caller ID.
****
"Don't sit on my couch like that," Clinton commanded, addressing the girl who hadn't noticed him enter the quiet sitting room of his apartment. The curtains were drawn, adding to the calm atmosphere of the space. The white cushions complemented the white walls, with art pieces hanging throughout the room. Clinton was someone who appreciated fine art, and he made it a point to purchase new works from the city's best gallery every week. The old pieces were always replaced, as he liked to keep his surroundings fresh and modern. The same went for his wardrobe—always updated. That was just his lifestyle.
Gabriella, sipping juice from a tumbler and watching a TV series, was startled by his voice. She swallowed hard and immediately stood up, feeling a pang of uncertainty. Had she done something wrong? All she had done was cross her legs and lean back against the couch.
"I-I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I was just waiting for—"
"Who the hell are you?" Clinton's eyes narrowed in disbelief.
"My mother is a domestic staff here, Sir. I— I'm so sorry." Gabriella hesitated, wondering why she was apologizing. As she reached for the cup on the table beside her chair, it slipped from her hand. Her eyes widened in horror as the drink spilled and stained the white rug.
"What the—" Clinton's temper flared as he watched the stain spread across the rug. His frustration boiled over. "Get out of my house! Who is your mother? She's fired!" His anger surged, and he could feel himself on the verge of losing control. He knew the rug would have to be replaced now. "Stop staring at me. Are you deaf?"
"No, please," Gabriella pleaded, rushing to her knees in front of him. "Don't fire my mom. She's not at fault."
Clinton glared at her for a moment, his anger unwavering. "You irritate me, and I don't take back my words. Security!"