Five Brutal Kings 3

Clinton's gaze first landed on the mansion, its pristine white walls standing tall against the afternoon light. Then, his attention shifted to the security guard who had just opened the gates for him. The posh car he drove—his father's gift for his birthday—glided smoothly onto the familiar driveway.

He allowed his eyes to wander over the luxury vehicles lined up in the garage, each one a testament to the wealth of the Cornell family. But what caught his attention was a cherry-red automobile parked near his own. Sleek. Bold. With only two seats—a driver's and a passenger's. Clinton had to admit, it was tasteful. The design, the build, the way it gleamed under the sun—it was impressive. His gaze lingered on it longer than necessary, a familiar desire creeping into his chest. When he wanted something, he had to have it.

A sharp knock on the window pulled him from his thoughts. Clinton rolled his eyes before reluctantly lowering the tinted glass.

Ronald, the tall, dark-skinned man who had manned the gates for nearly two decades, bent slightly to peer inside.

"Your family has been waiting for you," he said, his voice holding a warmth that most people wouldn't notice.

Ronald had watched Clinton grow up, and despite the boy's cold demeanor, he still cared for him. He also knew his daughter, Tasha, had taken a liking to Clinton. The young girl often asked about him, her fascination evident in the way she spoke his name.

Months ago, Tasha had seen Clinton for the first time when she was sent by the cook to retrieve food for herself and her father. She had known of the Cornell family—their wealth was frequently mentioned online—but she had never met their son in person. When she did, it was in the kitchen.

Clinton had been leaning against the counter, sipping juice from a short tumbler, his left hand tucked into the pocket of his grey joggers. He barely acknowledged her presence, his gaze sweeping over her before shifting to his phone. The device rang, and without a word, he answered and walked off, his juice in one hand, the phone pressed to his ear.

Tasha had watched him go, her heart pounding. He was handsome. So handsome. She couldn't stop repeating it in her head, couldn't stop the way her cheeks burned. Even later, as she served her father his meal, her thoughts remained fixated on Clinton. Her curiosity had led her to bombard Ronald with questions.

Ronald, amused but concerned, told her little about the boy. What he did know was that Clinton was a mystery, even to his own family.

Mrs. Cornell often complained about her son's distance. She was lonely—her husband, Cornell, was away on another expedition, and her two daughters had moved out of town for work. Though proud of their success, the absence of her children weighed heavily on her.

She longed for her son to be close to her, but with each passing day, Clinton seemed to slip further away. When she heard that her husband would be returning, she saw it as the perfect opportunity to bring the family together. A dinner was planned.

Clinton sighed, nodding slightly in response to Ronald before watching the older man walk away. He hesitated before stepping out of the car, adjusting his dark sunglasses as he made his way toward the house. The curtains in his bedroom window were drawn exactly as he had left them—low and undisturbed.

The parlor felt unfamiliar when he entered. With his hands tucked into his pockets, he observed the changes. The chairs had been replaced with a chestnut green set, starkly different from the old chalky-white furniture. Large chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, though none were turned on. The drapes blocked out the natural light.

Only one thing remained unchanged—the large painting on the east wall, depicting streaks of lightning illuminating a dark sky.

Clinton shook his head, feeling uncomfortable. He almost turned around and left.

Earlier, he had dressed casually for dinner and spent hours on a video call with his friends. They had teased him for bailing on them, but he made it up by planning another get-together before school resumed.

Clinton was about to retreat when a familiar voice called down from the staircase.

"Are you just going to stand there? Come up!"

His sister, Jose, peered down at him, amusement in her eyes. Clinton squinted up at her, wondering if their father had arrived yet.

The old man would definitely want to see him.

Concentrate on your studies and get yourself an impressive degree to run the company. Those were the words his father always repeated. You are my heir. Make me proud.

Clinton knew he'd hear the same speech again tonight.

Before he could respond, Jose's heels clicked against the stairs as she descended. Her smile was warm, familiar.

"You were missed," she said, wrapping her arms around him.

Clinton couldn't help but notice how little she had changed. Her round face was still smooth, a small piece of jewelry perched delicately on her nose. Her once-curly hair was now cut into a sharp, sleek bob.

"I know you like to be alone, but that shouldn't stop you from visiting," she added softly.

Jose had graduated with distinction and secured a top position at one of the country's most prestigious law firms.

Clinton met her beige eyes and gave a small nod. "Is Father home yet?"

"And Mom?" she countered. "Why don't you call her? She's your mother, Clinton."

Clinton sighed. "What else has she been telling you?"

Jose smiled knowingly. "She says you're stubborn and impossible to deal with, but that she loves you all the same."

Clinton rolled his eyes at the last part.

"I ate on my way here," he muttered, hoping to avoid a long dinner.

Jose's expression darkened. "I won't allow that," she said firmly, tucking her arm through his. "You'll eat everything Mom, Daisy, and I cooked, okay?"

She led him to the dining room, where the family was waiting.

Their father, grey-haired and sharp-eyed, smiled when he saw Clinton.

"You're here."

Mrs. Cornell, standing at the table, didn't look at him directly. Instead, she busied herself rearranging the plates.

Clinton took a seat far from her, clearing his throat as he searched for water.

"I expected this from you," she murmured, her voice tinged with frustration.

Before the tension could build, Daisy entered the room, her presence commanding attention.

"Let him be, Mom," she said casually, stepping toward Clinton. "Maybe he's just in a bad mood."

Daisy was tall, striking, and brilliant. She had gone into politics and swiftly climbed the ranks, becoming the government official in charge of economic policy. She had won against older, more experienced candidates, and her speeches had left entire rooms applauding.

She placed a hand on Clinton's shoulder. "Mum made sure we cooked your favorite," she whispered with a small smile.

Clinton frowned slightly. His favorite? He never told anyone at his apartment to prepare Spaghetti Bolognese. He mostly ate out.

Jose clapped her hands together. "We should eat. I'm starving!"

As everyone settled, Mr. Cornell turned to Clinton. "How's school?"

Clinton expected the question. He met his father's gaze and mumbled, "We're on break."

"You are the successor to my company," his father continued. "You must take your education seriously. Distinction, Clinton."

Clinton remained silent. He had no intention of making any promises. School had never been his priority, and it never would be.

He focused on his plate, ignoring the conversation around him.

His mother watched him, her expression unreadable.

Mr. Cornell spoke about his recent trip, Daisy discussed her career ambitions, and Jose, lost in thought, spoke dreamily about her boyfriend.

Clinton barely listened.

He had shown up. That was enough.

For now.

"You're not leaving until tomorrow," Mrs. Cornell announced abruptly, setting down her knife as she struggled to cut into the beef. "I've already arranged your room and bed."

Jose cast a glance at Clinton, instantly recognizing who their mother was referring to. The girls were set to leave that evening on the family jet due to their work commitments, while Mr. Cornell would remain at home as usual. Clinton frowned, gripping his glass tighter before taking a slow sip of juice. He wasn't pleased. He wanted to return to his penthouse, to the ocean view that had become part of his nightly routine. His mother's insistence grated on him.

"As the manager of Cornell Industries, I'm informed whenever money leaves the accounts," she added, her tone edged with authority.

Clinton rolled his eyes. He knew exactly what she was implying, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. If his father hadn't been at the table, he might have snapped back.

The grey-haired man remained unaware of the significant sum Clinton had withdrawn to purchase his penthouse—and the additional funds he planned to take. It was an investment. When the time came, he would explain. Until then, he didn't want any disruptions.

Shifting in his seat, Clinton pushed his chair back, the scraping sound drawing attention.

"I'm getting some water," he muttered, standing up.

"Oh, how could we forget the water?" Jose murmured absently.

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

Clinton poured cool water into a glass, taking slow sips as he wandered toward the window. His left hand slipped into his pocket as he gazed outside. His car sat in the driveway, the streets beyond the gates empty. The manicured gardens bloomed in soft hues—details he rarely noticed. For a fleeting moment, peace settled over him.

His mother's words echoed in his mind, and he exhaled. Arguing would get him nowhere. He knew she had won this round. He wasn't leaving tonight. With a resigned sigh, he took another sip of water.

•

Meanwhile, outside Clinton's room, Tasha took a deep breath—once, twice, three times—before unlocking the door with the keys she had been given. The housekeeper had asked her to clean the room before hurrying off to another task. Tasha hadn't hesitated, grabbing a dusting brush and sanitizer.

Stepping inside, she paused.

The room was magnificent.

Her heart clenched slightly as she took in the space, comparing it to her own—a simple bed, a modest wardrobe. This wasn't just a bedroom; it was a statement. If this belonged to Clinton, the youngest in the family, she couldn't begin to imagine what Mr. and Mrs. Cornell's suite looked like.

She walked toward the massive drapes, her fingertips brushing the fabric before pulling them open. The view was breathtaking. Her father stood in the driveway, speaking on his phone. Did I tell him I'd be cleaning? she wondered. Did Mrs. Aisha mention it?

Her gaze shifted to the bed—large, inviting, piled high with pillows.

That's where he sleeps.

Setting the cleaning supplies on the table between two sofas, she approached the bed. Slowly, she ran a hand over the duvet. It was impossibly soft. A blush crept up her cheeks as an image flashed in her mind—her, curled up in the bed… with Clinton beside her.

Stop, Tasha.

She lightly slapped her cheek, scolding herself.

But as her fingers traced the giant portrait of Clinton on the wall, her heart skipped. His features were drawn with stunning accuracy—his eyes, his lips, the sharp cut of his jawline.

We'd look good together, she thought, smiling before quickly turning back to her task.

•

Back in the hallway, Clinton didn't bother announcing his departure. The others were used to him slipping away. He was exhausted—too full for more conversation.

Yawning, he walked down the quiet corridor, scrolling through his phone. The chandeliers above cast a warm glow, but he barely noticed. He just wanted a shower and sleep.

Reaching his room, he entered his passcode—his birth year—but paused.

The door was slightly open.

His brows knit together. I'm sure I closed it.

Pushing it wider, his eyes immediately landed on the curtains. Open.

He sighed, shaking his head. Another mistake definitely done by the room's cleaner.

Crossing the room, he pulled them shut, glancing outside at the thickening clouds. He stripped off his shirt, shivering slightly in the cool air. His phone buzzed—Daniel.

How's the family dinner? Any fights with your mom yet?

Clinton smirked, replying with a goofy sticker before tossing the phone onto the table.

Tasha froze as Clinton entered.

Her breath hitched.

Before she could think, her feet moved on their own—straight into the closet.

She barely had time to process what she had done before panic set in. The dusting brush lay forgotten at her feet. He wasn't supposed to be home.

Through the tiny crack in the door, she watched as Clinton unbuttoned his trousers, stripping down to his blue shorts.

Her pulse pounded.

Despite the cold, sweat dampened her forehead. She pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp. Oh, God.

She hadn't meant to intrude. She could explain. She was only here to clean.

Her eyes flicked back to him.

Clinton walked toward the closet.

Her stomach twisted.

Oh, Lord.

He was getting closer. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her sundress, heart racing. She could run out, apologize—tell him it was just a misunderstanding.

But the sight of him like this—bare skin, toned frame—made her want to disappear.

The closet door creaked.

Light spilled in.

Clinton's sharp voice cut through the silence.

"What are you doing in here?"

Tasha slowly lifted her gaze, her breath catching as their eyes met.

Her grip tightened on her dress, but it didn't matter. Clinton's attention had already dropped—to her hips.

And she knew he had noticed.