I let the intercom ring twice more before I moved.
Not because I hadn't heard it. My house was designed to carry sound like a whisper through glass, but because anticipation, when properly timed was a kind of power. Two minutes was my usual. Long enough to unsettle. Short enough to remain polite.
I set the goblet down, the stem cool against my fingertips, and crossed the living room barefoot. The marble floor held the last trace of the afternoon sun, warm and faintly indulgent. Outside the camera feed flickered to life.
Mike.
Of course.
Two bouquets this time—both red roses, predictably excessive, and a sleek box tucked under his arm that screamed imported chocolates. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rehearsing patience the way men like him always did: visibly.
I opened the door on the exact second he started to lose it.
His face brightened instantly, like someone had turned a switch behind his eyes. His glasses caught the hallway light. clean, expensive lenses, no smudges. Mike didn't do anything halfway. Even his charm came polished.
"Good evening to the most beautiful woman on earth."
There it was.
Delivered like a line he'd practiced in front of a mirror. Delivered like it always worked.
I leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed. "You're getting predictable."
"Predictability builds trust," he said smoothly, stepping in as if the invitation had already been granted.
I didn't argue. Some people didn't need permission. They simply entered.
The scent of roses followed him in—thick, almost theatrical. I took one bouquet from his hands, lifting it to my nose out of habit rather than appreciation. Fresh. Expensive. Carefully chosen. He knew exactly what he was doing.
"I'll take these," I said, setting them down on the table beside the wine. "I assume the other one is for Charity."
"Of course." He pulled out the chair across from mine, sitting like he owned the place but trying not to look like it. "Where is she, by the way? Already asleep?"
I opened the box of chocolates. Dark, glossy pieces arranged like they deserved admiration. I picked one, bit into it, and let the bitterness settle on my tongue before chasing it with wine.
"No," I said casually. "She's with someone."
Mike paused mid-reach for his glass. "Someone?"
There was a slight shift in his tone. Barely noticeable, but I caught it. I always caught it. It was part of the job. Dermatology taught you to read surfaces; life taught you to read what hid beneath them.
"Her boyfriend?" he asked.
I took my time answering. Another sip. Another second stretched just enough to make him sit straighter.
Then, from the hallway behind us.
"I don't like boys, Uncle."
We both turned at the sound of Charity's voice, but my gaze snagged on the man beside her. He filled the doorway as if the kitchen had shrunk around him, his height crowding the space. A single bag hung off his shoulder, posture loose, nothing like Mike's crisp, practiced composure. Severino wore the room wrong, left it a little crooked, and somehow made it look better that way.
He watched us with a look that bordered on disgust, unfiltered and unapologetic. I hated how easily his thoughts showed.
I rose and crossed to Charity. She'd appeared out of nowhere again. What she'd said wasn't new. I knew it, accepted it, but her constant barbs at Mike scraped at my patience. She made no effort to hide how much she disliked him.
"I'll walk Seven out, Mom."
"I'll do it, sweetheart. Stay here, okay?" I smoothed her shoulders, gentle but firm. "Just for a minute, could you say hi to M—" I lowered my voice.
"No." The word snapped out of her. Arms folded. Chin lifted.
I swallowed a sigh. This wasn't the moment to correct her. "Wait here," I told them, then turned back to Mike.
He must have sensed the shift; his expression had already soured. He knew my daughter didn't like him, and he never tried to prove her wrong. Two stubborn prides rarely meet in the middle.
"Well, I guess I won't be talking to your daughter again," he said, irritation edging his tone. "Who's that boy, anyway?" He nodded toward Severino.
"Charity's tutor," I said. "It's late. I'm sorry we didn't get much time to talk. I still have to see him home."
He adjusted his leather coat, brushing it off with a handkerchief though it was already spotless. "I'll take him. Where does he live?" His hand closed around my arm, nudging me aside as he called out to Severino with a sharp, careless whistle. "Kid, where do you live? I'll drop you off."
"Mike…" I caught his shoulder and turned him back to me. He seized the moment, threading his fingers through mine. I pulled away.
"I'll handle it. I need to speak with him about Charity."
He exhaled, long and reluctant. He knew that tone—final, not to be repeated. I don't like saying things twice. And he knows better than to push when my mood dips.
"Fine. Looks like I don't have a choice." Another sigh. His hands settled on my elbows, thumbs tracing slow circles. "I'll see you at the clinic." He kissed my cheek.
It wasn't the first time. Still, it landed like nothing. No spark, no warmth. Not even a flicker of the heat I can summon on my own, alone in the dark.
I didn't bother walking him out. That's not my responsibility. Mike knows where the exit is, and he's long gotten used to how I am. I don't go out of my way to cater to people, especially when they're perfectly capable of handling things themselves. Besides, it's not like he's new here. I only made sure he'd shut the door properly before heading back to Charity.
They were in the middle of a conversation, my daughter's voice light and unmistakably feminine, spilling through the room. Watching them now, they could easily pass for siblings.
Anything beyond that would be pushing it. Charity is only nineteen.
"Finally, you're done." My daughter let out a breath, visibly relieved. "Mom, next time, please don't do stuff like that in front of us. It's embarrassing, especially with Seven here." Her face twisted in disgust, and I simply crossed my arms.
I glanced at Severino, who was absorbed in his phone, long fingers moving swiftly across the screen. "Is your friend ready?"
"Yeah, he's just messaging his aunt." Charity even leaned in to peek at Seven's screen, and I couldn't help but notice how at ease they were with each other.
"All right. I'll grab something from my room, then we can go."
--
"Do you live alone?" I asked Severino as we cut through traffic, my hands steady on the wheel. His warm, masculine scent tangled with the floral and bergamot notes lingering inside my car, the two clashing in the tight space.
"No. I stay with my aunt," he said, turning his head to look at me. "I don't have parents anymore. When they died, I had no choice but to move in with her, and help her earn a living."
The words landed heavier than his tone suggested. I wasn't used to how easily he said things like that, how casually he laid them out. I kept my eyes on the road, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.
I made a U-turn, glancing now and then at the glowing map on the dashboard. I've never been good at memorizing routes; I rely on directions like a lifeline.
"That must've been hard."
"How would you know?" he shot back. "You've never been in my position."
Is he mad?
"I don't have to live your life to understand it," I said, my voice quieter but firm. "I can feel it. I get it."
Something flickered beneath his words. Something restrained, something sharper than irritation, but he said nothing more.
Silence settled between us, thick and stretching.
I parted my lips, ready to steer the conversation back to Charity.
"Have you ever been with a younger man, Patricia?"
My foot eased off the accelerator. "Excuse me?"
The car slowed as the question sank in, heavy and absurd.
I turned to him. He was already watching me.
I forced my gaze upward, away from the hard lines of his body, and met his eyes instead—dark, burning, deliberate. He looked at me like I was a challenge, like I was something to win, something temporary.
"I'm asking if you've ever had a relationship with someone younger than you," he clarified, his gaze dipping, shamelessly to my slightly parted lips. "I'll take that as a no."
"Do you want to get fired on your first day?" Irritation sharpened my voice, though something else simmered underneath, and he knew it.
"Fired? For asking a question?"
"That wasn't just a question."
He narrowed his hooded eyes, a faint, infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. "Then what was it? Why won't you answer? Are you embarrassed to admit you've never—"
The crack of my hand against his cheek cut him off.
My palm stung. My fingers trembled as I clenched them into a fist. A flush spread across his skin, bright and undeniable.
I didn't regret it.
His tongue slid slowly across his lower lip as he turned back to me, amused.
This bastard.
"The next time you slap me," he said, voice low and edged with something dangerous, "I won't let it end there. I'll be on top of you, probably in this car, and I'm clenching inside your pretty little cunt."
The words didn't sound like a threat.
Before I could answer, before I could even decide whether I was furious or something far worse, he opened the door.
The city roared in, loud and immediate, as if it had been waiting.
He stepped out and shut the door with a firm, final thud. Just like that, he was gone.
I sat there, unmoving. And feeling that unexplainable hot emotions within me.
Severino Haynes is a jerk.