Chereads / Five Brutal Kings / Chapter 3 - Five Brutal Kings 3

Chapter 3 - Five Brutal Kings 3

Clinton's eyes first landed on the mansion with its pristine white walls, then shifted to the security guard who had just opened the gates for him and his posh car—the one his father had gifted him for his birthday. The brown-haired boy allowed his gaze to wander over the luxurious cars parked in the garage, eventually settling on a cherry-red automobile with just a driver and passenger seat, parked close to where he had parked his own car. Clinton had to admit—it was tasteful. The design of the car was impressive. He stared at it for a moment longer than he probably should have, and the thought of owning it, of taking it for a ride, overwhelmed him. He knew himself well—when he was attracted to something, he always wanted to have it.

Clinton rolled his eyes when he heard two sharp knocks on the window. The tall, dark man in uniform, responsible for manning the gates, bent his head toward the tinted window, waiting for it to open. He probably wondered why Clinton had been sitting in his car for so long. Reluctantly, Clinton pressed the button to roll down the mirrored glass. The man looked at him with concern.

"Your family has been waiting for your arrival," Ronald said. He'd worked at the gates for 19 years and, to the Cornell family, he wasn't just a gatekeeper—he was family. Clinton gave him a small smile to reassure him the at everything was fine.

Ronald had a soft spot for Clinton, even though the young man never seemed to notice. He admired the boy physically and understood why his young daughter, Tasha, had been enchanted by him. Whenever Tasha visited, she would always ask Ronald about Clinton's whereabouts.

Months ago, Tasha had seen Clinton for the first time. She had been sent by the cook to fetch food for herself and her father. Tasha knew of the Cornell family, of their wealth, which was frequently mentioned online, but she'd never actually met their son. She adored the Cornell family, especially Madam Sandra, who treated her with the kindness of a mother.

That day, Tasha had been stunned to find Clinton in the kitchen, sipping juice from a short tumbler. His left hand was tucked into the pocket of his grey joggers. When Clinton noticed her, he studied her from head to toe with an expression that made Tasha nervous. She waved shyly but didn't know what to say. Clinton, however, was more interested in his phone, which rang and he picked up, walking away with the fruit juice in one hand and his phone pressed to his ear. Tasha watched him until he was out of sight, her heart racing. It felt as though her heart was singing. She tried not to blush, but it was hard to ignore the attraction she felt. She couldn't stop thinking, He's handsome, oh, he's cute. She repeated it to herself as she grabbed the familiar food flask from the cupboard.

That day, Tasha kept thinking about him, even as she served her father the meal. When she finished, she asked Ronald more questions about Clinton, her curiosity obvious. Ronald, amused and worried at the same time, told her what little he knew about the boy—how Clinton had kept the same four friends since kindergarten. Ronald knew his daughter was head over heels for Clinton, but he was concerned. He knew Clinton wasn't interested in anyone, not even his own family.

More often than not, Ronald overheard Mrs. Cornell's complaints when she spoke to someone on the phone.

She'd been lonely, her husband, Cornell, away on an expedition, and her two daughters living out of town for work. While she was proud of their success, she couldn't help but feel the sting of their distance.

There was nothing Mrs. Cornell wanted more than for her only son to be close to her. But as the days and weeks passed, Clinton, the boy she had raised with love, seemed to drift further away. Sandra was hurt, and her frustration grew. When she learned that her husband would be returning from his months-long trip, she suggested a family dinner, hoping to reconnect.

Clinton nodded to acknowledge that he had heard Ronald. Ronald smiled back and walked away. Clinton sighed, biting his lip. He wasn't sure he wanted to be around his family. As his eyes met the windows of his room, he rolled his eyes. The curtains hung just as he had left them, low and undisturbed. He hesitated before stepping out of the car, carefully adjusting his dark glasses. He strolled through the garden to the front door on the west side—the one that led to the sitting room.

The parlor felt unfamiliar. With his hands in his pockets, Clinton noticed the changes made to the once-wide, dim living room. The chairs, now a chestnut green, had replaced the old chalky white. For a moment, he wondered what the large chandeliers hanging from the ceiling were for—none of them were switched on, and the drapes blocked out the natural light. The large painted picture on the far east wall, showing tiny streaks of lightning illuminating the dark sky, was the only thing he recognized. Clinton shook his head, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He almost wanted to leave. His feet instinctively moved backward, and he wasn't happy about having canceled the meeting with his friends. They were the only ones who could brighten his day.

Earlier, after getting dressed in a casual top and baggy trousers for dinner, Clinton had called to apologize to his friends. They accepted his apology, teasing him in a way that made him laugh. The video call had lasted for hours.

He had set another date for next weekend, before school resumed. David and Harrison scolded him for his sudden disappearance from the club. Clinton promised them he wouldn't vanish like that again, though he knew from their skeptical expressions that they didn't believe him. The boys knew him well—no matter how much he tried, he wouldn't be comfortable in a crowded room. What mattered to them was that Clinton let them know whenever he was planning to leave. Somehow, he was satisfied knowing they wouldn't hang up. They had all decided to enjoy the evening from the comfort of their own rooms.

"Are you going to just stand there? Come up!" Clinton heard the excitement in the familiar voice coming from above the stairs. It was Jose, his older sister. Clinton squinted up at her, wondering for a moment if their father had arrived yet. The old man would definitely want to see his heir apparent. As he often said, "Concentrate on your studies and get yourself an impressive degree to run the company. You are my heir. Make me proud in your studies—that's all I ask of you." Clinton was certain his father would repeat those words when they finally saw each other.

Before he could respond to his sister, who was three years and two months older, he heard the click of her heels on the stairs. Jose was coming to meet him with the familiar walk he'd always known. He saw the smile on her rose-colored lips. As soon as they were close enough, Jose threw her arms around him. Clinton couldn't help but notice that she hadn't aged a day. Her round face was still smooth, with a piece of jewelry perched delicately on her nose. Jose's once-curly hair was now cut short and styled into a sleek bob.

"You were missed," she said softly, still holding him in the embrace. "I know you want to be alone sometimes, but that shouldn't stop you from visiting, calling, or texting," she added, her voice light and melodic. Jose had graduated from college with distinction, landing a top position at the largest law firm in the country. Clinton met her ever-beige eyes and gave a small nod.

"Is Father home yet?" Clinton's eyes drifted back to the stairs. Is he upstairs in the dining room? he thought.

"And Mum?" she added quickly, pressing into his statement. "Why don't you call her? She's your mother, Clinton," Jose said, her hands resting gently on his arms, her eyes gazing at him soothingly.

Clinton sighed. "What else has she been telling you?" he asked. Jose was rarely home due to the demands of her job. She lived alone outside the state, paying for a duplex apartment just minutes away from the corporate offices.

"She says you're a strong-headed child who doesn't consider anyone else's decisions. But she adores you with all her heart," Jose said with a playful grin. Clinton rolled his eyes at the last part.

"I had hamburgers on my way here. I won't eat much," he assured her.

Jose frowned slightly. "I won't allow that," she promised. "You'll eat everything Mum, Daisy, and I cooked with the chef's help, okay?" she said, tucking her arm through his. "Come on, they're waiting for us."

Her eyes met his, and for a split second, Clinton noticed something in her gaze—an attraction he hadn't fully acknowledged before. She had been watching him from the kitchen window when he arrived, waiting patiently to greet him without telling anyone else.

"After dinner, you should let me know what cologne you're wearing. You smell so nice," Jose whispered quickly, leaning in to speak in his ear before moving to stand next to their father. The grey-haired man with gentle lines on his cheeks smiled when he saw Clinton. They had been waiting for his arrival before they began the meal.

The large dining table was set with napkins and stainless steel utensils, everything in place for the meal. Their father beckoned him over for a hug, and Clinton didn't hesitate to embrace him.

"You're here." Mrs. Cornell avoided her son's gaze, her eyes fixed on the table as her hands absentmindedly rearranged the plates. She wouldn't deny that she loved his presence, but something about the way he held back made her feel a tinge of sadness.

Clinton didn't respond. He moved to sit in a chair far from where she stood, clearing his throat slightly. He was thirsty, his eyes scanning the table for water.

"I expected this from you," Mrs. Cornell said, her voice carrying a hint of frustration. It seemed she was about to start an argument, and Clinton could feel the tension rising. She noticed that he wasn't giving her the attention she wanted, and it hurt a little.

"Let him be, Mum," came the voice of his eldest sister, Daisy, as she gracefully walked into the room. Her heels clicked against the floor with every step. "He might just be in a bad mood."

Daisy was tall and striking, with a beautiful face that commanded attention. Her intellectual abilities were what drew people to her, particularly her colleagues in business. Daisy had gone into politics and was elected as the government official in charge of economic policy. She'd won the position among many highly qualified candidates, some older and more experienced than her. Her speech on the day of her coronation had made everyone in the room stand and clap in approval. The Cornells were immensely proud of her. That evening, they'd celebrated with champagne and steaks, savoring the cold air as they toasted her success.

Clinton was grateful that Daisy had intervened before things escalated with their mother. Daisy walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. His head tilted up to meet her soft, ivory eyes. She smiled at him, and their fingers locked for a brief moment. Daisy bent down and threw her arms around his neck.

"With help from the cooks, Mum, Jose, and I prepared everything on the table," she said with pride, her eyes gleaming as they swept over the mouthwatering dishes. "Mum made sure we cooked your favorite," she whispered in his ear. Clinton thought for a second. What was his favorite dish? He'd never told the cook at his apartment to prepare Spaghetti Bolognese—he mostly ate out.

"Make sure to eat more than your belly's full," she teased, holding him for a moment longer before letting go.

Jose, who had been eagerly eyeing the food, clapped her hands twice and announced, "We should start eating. I'm starving!" She flashed a playful grin before picking up a fork, her attention fixed on the roasted beef.

"Sure." Daisy sat down next to Clinton. "Go ahead," she urged, noticing that he was still looking for water on the crowded table.

"How's school, son?" Mr. Cornell asked, his voice casual. Clinton paused, his mouth still full. He had expected this question. He allowed his eyes to meet his father's.

"We're on holidays," Clinton mumbled, swallowing the bit of meat in his mouth. He saw his father nod.

"You are the successor of my company and its assets," Mr. Cornell continued, his tone growing more serious. "You must take your education seriously. Understand?" He met Clinton's gaze, his eyes filled with quiet pride. "Distinction," he added, stressing the word.

Clinton didn't respond. He wasn't going to make any promises. He'd never been fond of school—his family should know that by now. They always emphasized education as the key to success, but to him, it felt like mental stress.

He remained silent, uninterested, as he shoveled some salad into his mouth. Whether or not he got a distinction, he was still the heir.

His eyes flicked to the woman sitting next to Jose, who had been watching him quietly. Mrs. Sandra quickly looked away when their eyes met.

Mr. Cornell continued to talk about his recent trip, the business deals he'd secured, and the fun he had in the country he had visited. He seemed genuinely pleased to share his experiences with the family. As he ate more vegetables than anything else, it was clear he had enjoyed his travels.

Daisy laughed as she spoke about her work as the Minister of Finance. It was obvious how much she loved her job. The respect she commanded in her workplace suited her perfectly. She'd recently been considering going further in her career—maybe even aiming to become the chief executive accountant of a federation. The idea of sitting at the table with highly educated men and women discussing funds was something she cherished.

Jose, meanwhile, was lost in thoughts about her own future. She dreamily talked about her boyfriend and the signs of engagement. She placed her palms to her chin as she rambled on about her dream wedding, how she envisioned beautiful dresses and bright cakes. Her favorite color for the wedding theme? Blue.

"You're not leaving until tomorrow," Mrs. Cornell said suddenly, looking up from her plate as she struggled to cut the beef. "I've already arranged your room and bed."

Jose glanced at Clinton, knowing exactly who their mother was talking about. The girls were leaving later that evening on the family jet due to their work schedules. Mr. Cornell would stay at home, of course. Clinton frowned and gulped his juice. He wasn't happy. He wanted to return to his apartment, to his room with a view of the ocean. It had become part of his nightly routine since moving into the penthouse. He found his mother's insistence frustrating.

"As the manager of Cornell Industries, I'm informed whenever money leaves the accounts," Mrs. Cornell added, her voice carrying a hint of authority. Clinton rolled his eyes. He was aware of the threat, but he wasn't going to let her have the satisfaction of seeing him react. He would have snapped at her if his father hadn't been in the room.

The grey-haired man was unaware of the significant amount of money Clinton had taken from the company to buy his penthouse. He was also planning to withdraw more funds. It was all part of an investment, he would explain it to them when they found out. Clinton shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. He moved slightly, as though preparing to leave the table. His chair scraped against the floor, drawing everyone's attention.

"I'm going to get some water," he said, standing up and walking away.

"Oh, how could we forget the water?" Jose murmured, almost to herself.

"Be back for some toast!" Daisy called after him, a playful tone in her voice.

Clinton poured some cool water from the jug he had taken out of the fridge into a cup and took a few slow sips. His left hand slipped into his pocket as he strode toward the window. He gazed out at the parking garage below and the blooming flowers in the garden, which he hadn't noticed before. His eyes lingered on his car first. The streets outside the gates were empty, and the houses, similar to his own, stood firm behind their fences. For a moment, Clinton felt a strange peace as he stood there alone. He thought about what his mother had said earlier and knew better than to argue or defy her. He didn't want his plans to be disrupted. Clinton knew he would be staying home until the next day. With a sigh, he took another sip from his cup.

Meanwhile, Tasha stood outside the door to Clinton's room, exhaling deeply three times before unlocking it with the keys she'd been given. She'd been asked to clean the room by the cleaner, who had hurried off to attend to something urgent. Tasha hadn't hesitated to grab a bottle of sanitizers and a dusting brush, eager to get started.

The girl, dressed in a dark summer dress that exposed her back and shoulders, pushed the door open and took a moment to survey the room. Magnificent, she thought, her self-esteem momentarily dropping as she compared the spacious, tasteful room to her own modest space with its single bed and small wardrobe. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. This wasn't a fantasy. It was real. Tasha wondered what Mr. and Mrs. Cornell's room must look like if their youngest child had a room like this.

Unsure where to begin, Tasha moved toward the large drapes that hung from the ceiling. Her feet made no sound as she walked across the polished floor, her fingers brushing the soft fabric before drawing the curtains open. The view through the window was expansive, and she could see her father standing in the driveway, talking on his phone. I didn't tell him I was going to clean, she thought briefly. Did Mrs. Aisha mention it? She didn't know, but it felt cool to see the outside world spread out before her from such a grand window.

Her gaze shifted to the gigantic bed, piled high with pillows and a duvet that looked impossibly soft. That's where he sleeps, she whispered to herself, dropping the dust brush and sanitizer on the table between two sofa beds. She made her way over to the left side of the bed, running her hand over the duvet. It was as soft as it had looked. She couldn't help but imagine curling up in it, with Clinton beside her. Oh, stop, Tasha, she whispered to herself, blushing and lightly slapping her cheek.

We would look good together, she thought, her fingers lightly grazing the giant portrait of Clinton on the wall. His eyes, nose, lips, and jawline were drawn with stunning accuracy. Tasha smiled, staring at the portrait for a while before quickly turning back to the dust brush.

Back in the hallway, Clinton didn't want to inform the others waiting for him in the dining room that he was headed to his room. He didn't bother—they were used to him slipping away. He was exhausted, too tired for more conversation. He'd already had his fill of food and, after drinking the water, felt even fuller.

He yawned as he walked down the quiet hallway, the chandeliers above casting a gentle glow. All he wanted was to take a shower and head to bed.

As he scrolled through his phone, Clinton reached for his door and entered his passcode, his birth year. His finger was one digit away from unlocking it when he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. He blinked, pausing for a moment. I'm sure I closed it, he thought, but it must have been the cleaner's mistake. He pushed the door open wider.

His eyes immediately went to the curtains, which were left open. He sighed and walked over to them. Another mistake, he muttered aloud, watching the clouds outside grow thicker and darker. He drew the curtains closed and began to remove his shirt, feeling the chill of the dim room. He glanced at his phone, where a message from Daniel popped up, asking how the family dinner was going and joking about whether there had been any arguments with his mother. Clinton couldn't help but smile at the message. Daniel knew how he felt about his mother—demanding, overbearing, and always trying to control everything.

Clinton quickly replied with a goofy sticker before setting the phone down on the center table.

Tasha watched as Clinton entered the room and locked the door behind him. Panicked, she quickly moved to hide in the closet. She spotted the dusting brush she had been using earlier lying at her feet. Her heart raced as she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling a wave of fear and uncertainty. She hadn't been told he was home. Her mind raced—had he returned from his new apartment? Had he gotten tired of being alone?

Tasha couldn't help but peer through the crack in the closet door, watching as Clinton started to remove his trousers, leaving only his blue shorts. Her feet shook. Despite the cold room, sweat beaded on her forehead. She covered her mouth to stifle any noise, fighting back the urge to cry. In that moment, Tasha found herself wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. She hadn't thought she would ever want to disappear, but now, she felt trapped.

Tasha tried to calm herself, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. She was terrified, but her mind couldn't help but notice the scent of his clothes, lingering in the air. She looked again, only to see him approaching the closet. Oh, Lord, she thought, panicking inside her head. She considered running out and explaining herself—telling him she was only there to clean, that she hadn't meant to intrude. She could tell him she was just nervous and scared, that she'd hidden because of the awkward situation.

But as Clinton moved closer, she realized she didn't have the courage to face him, especially not like this. The sight of him in just his underpants made everything worse. Her heart thudded in her chest, each beat louder than the last. Her eyes squeezed shut, and from beneath her eyelids, she noticed the soft glow of light. Clinton had switched on the low lamp to find his pajamas in the closet before heading to the bathroom.

"What are you doing in here?" Clinton's voice rang out, full of surprise. Tasha slowly opened her eyes to find him squinting at her from the doorway. She instinctively pulled the hem of her sundress tighter around her body, trying to avoid looking at him below the waist.

"I—I'm sorry, sir. I swear I—" Tasha's words faltered. The moment their eyes met, she couldn't focus. Her mind went blank as she realized where his gaze had fallen—directly on her hips.