Mr. Thompson returned home late that evening.
I heard the low murmur of his voice in the living room—he was talking to Dave about something serious. Their conversation faded after a moment, and the house fell quiet again.
My heart pounded.
I stood inside the kitchen doorway, hidden behind the pantry shelf, waiting for him to pass so I could dash to my room without being seen.
Since the last incident—since that night—I had been avoiding him with all the strength in my body. Even the morning he knocked at my door, I pretended to be asleep. I didn't know how to face him. I didn't want to see the look on his face. I didn't want him to read my thoughts or remember my drunken mistake.
And today…
I was supposed to report to his office after my rehearsal, but I left immediately instead—ran out before he could even call my name.
Thankfully, Dave had driven me to work with his car, giving me the perfect escape route.
But now?
Now the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
I was deep in thought—still glued to my hiding spot—when I stepped forward at the exact moment someone else did.
I collided straight into Dave.
"Chant!" he exclaimed softly, steadying me. "Why are you hiding? Or should I ask why you aren't looking where you're going? Is everything okay?"
His eyes studied my face, searching, confused.
But my gaze wasn't on him.
My eyes were fixed on the staircase.
I kept praying silently—God, please don't let him come down now… please…
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," I replied quickly. Too quickly. "Goodnight. I… I want to go inside."
I tried to slip past him, but Dave gently held my wrist.
"Chantel," he said, more firmly this time, "are you sure you're okay?"
I opened my mouth to answer—
And then I heard footsteps descending the stairs.
Heavy.
Slow.
Familiar.
My heart dropped to my stomach.
"Oh no…" I whispered under my breath, immediately turning my face away.
Too late.
Mr. Thompson reached the last step, and before I could breathe, he was standing right in front of us.
My eyes remained glued to the floor.
I couldn't look at him.
"Is everything okay?" he asked, first glancing at Dave, then at me.
"Yes, she said she's fine," Dave replied quickly. "But I don't understand her actions this evening. Something feels off—but well, she insists she's okay."
Mr. Thompson's attention returned to me.
"Chant…"
His voice softened.
"Are you okay?"
I nodded, still refusing to lift my face.
He smiled—I didn't see it, but I felt it. The warmth in his voice gave it away.
"If she says she's fine, then that's okay," he said lightly.
Then his tone shifted ever so slightly.
"By the way, Chant… why didn't you come to the office after rehearsal today? They told me you'd left."
My mouth felt dry.
"Ye… yes, sir," I stammered, "I left earlier. I was having running stomach."
He let out a small, almost teasing smile.
"Are you sure it's running stomach?" he asked quietly.
"Or you just wanted to—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
"Anyway… it's okay."
He walked away.
Only when he disappeared into the hallway did I release the breath I had been holding.
Dave was still staring at me.
"Do you want to sleep now," he asked gently, "or do you want to take a short walk outside? It might help clear your mind."
"No, no," I answered immediately, almost panicking. "I need to sleep now. Goodnight, Mr. Dave."
I hurried away before he could say another word and shut my door behind me.
Dave stood there quietly for a moment—thinking—before heading outside to meet Mr. Thompson.
Thompson sat in the garden, leaning back on a chair, eyes on his phone, the night air cool around him. The glow from the small garden lamps reflected off his face.
Dave joined him.
"Thompson," he began, "the chairman from Harrison Group finally replied. I just saw the email."
Without looking up, Thompson asked, "Good. And I hope it's positive?"
"Yes," Dave said with a small smile. "Very positive."
Silence settled for a while. The night breeze drifted softly between them.
Then Dave inhaled deeply.
"Thompson…" he started again, "I think I'm ready to ask Chant out. I want to… do that."
Thompson didn't look up at first—just nodded slightly.
"Okay," he said. "That's good. Just do what you want, bro. You have my support."
Dave smiled faintly.
"Thanks. And… how are things with you and Sylvia? When is the wedding again? You said two months after the program we're hosting next week?"
This time, Thompson finally lifted his eyes from the phone. He stared straight ahead—not at Dave, not at anything—just into the air.
He exhaled slowly.
"Bro… honestly, the wedding isn't on my mind right now," he admitted.
"I want to focus on the event first. After that… I'll think about it."
Dave nodded in understanding.
They were still talking when Sylvia suddenly walked in, heels clicking dramatically against the tiled path.
"Baby…" she said with an exaggerated pout and sat down on Thompson's lap as though she owned the place.
"I've been looking everywhere for you."
Thompson placed an arm around her lightly—more out of courtesy than affection.
"I'm here with my brother," he replied.
Dave stood up immediately. "I'll head inside. Goodnight, bro."
He didn't spare Sylvia a glance.
She let out a fake, irritated sigh as she slid into the chair he had vacated.
Dave turned, shot her a brief, dry look, and walked away.
Sylvia cleared her throat loudly.
"Baby, what's going on between you and my brother? Why don't you two talk? What's the problem?"
Thompson raised a brow. "Why are you asking me? Ask him. He's the one behaving somehow—not me. Anyway, I don't care."
Sylvia rolled her eyes dramatically.
"Baby, so it's true?" she asked suddenly.
"Is it true you're using that girl—Chantel—for a modeling role at the upcoming event? The one that high-ranking guests will attend?"
"Babe, you need to see Chant perform," Thompson said calmly. "She's exceptionally talented."
Sylvia scoffed instantly.
"What do you expect a desperate low-life like her to do? Of course she'll try with her last strength just to fit somewhere she'll never reach—even in her next life."
Her tone dripped with venom.
"I can't wait for her to leave this house. I hate that girl completely."
"Well," Thompson said, sitting upright, "you should start getting used to her. Because she'll soon be a permanent member of this house."
Sylvia froze.
Her eyes widened.
Her lips parted.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Dave wants to propose to her," Thompson replied simply. "Or maybe ask her out first before pro—"
Sylvia shot up from her seat, cutting him off angrily.
"Is he mad?!" she shouted.
"Propose to WHO? Is Dave okay?!"
Thompson turned fully toward her.
"You know I'm the one who's supposed to react like this," he said calmly. "Because Dave is my brother—not yours. And he is a full-grown man who goes after what he wants."
Sylvia glared.
Thompson continued.
"Who are you to him? His mother?"
He gestured toward the house.
"Okay, go and stop him then."
Sylvia's chest rose and fell in fury.
"Oh please," she snapped, "baby you can't approve this. It's wrong! How can the Johnson family allow a—"
"Don't," Thompson warned, his voice suddenly sharp.
"I've told you to stop calling that girl a slave. She is NOT. So stop it."
Sylvia bit her lip furiously and sat down again—silenced, angry, but unable to speak.
The garden fell silent once more.
The wind blew gently through the flowers.
The night became quiet again…
But nothing in that house would remain quiet for long.