Five Brutal Kings 8

"It was surprising to see him washing his own beddings," Tasha overheard the cleaner say.

She was speaking to the fair-skinned woman in a red gown with black polka dots, an apron tied neatly over it. The woman, who was busy fixing her hair into a white headscarf, moved with practiced ease as she prepared to fry plantains on the kitchen countertop.

Mrs. Sandra had specifically requested fried plantains and eggs for lunch. Her husband, Mr. Cornell, had left that morning to inspect a newly acquired estate, several hectares of land waiting to be developed. Sandra had watched him drive away with the chauffeur, her expression unreadable. Before he left, he had kissed her forehead, murmuring a promise to call as soon as he landed. Yet, after seeing the car disappear down the long driveway, she had retreated indoors, frustration setting in when her calls to Clinton went unanswered.

Tasha wiped the cold sweat forming on her forehead, carefully arranging glassware into the cupboard in the eastern corner of the room. The kitchen was warm, the scent of fresh plantains filling the air, but the calm voice of the fair-skinned woman drew her attention.

"I think I saw bloodstains on the sheets," the woman said hesitantly, glancing toward the cleaner. "He stuffed them into the washing machine so quickly, like he was hiding something."

Tasha stiffened, her hands momentarily freezing midair as she placed the last glass on the shelf.

Mrs. Aisha, the cleaner, had been whistling softly as she passed through the hallway after mopping the downstairs toilets—ones that were rarely used but cleaned daily. As she made her way past the laundry room, the door slightly ajar caught her attention. Something about it made her pause.

Curious, she had stepped closer. Faint noises came from inside.

She hadn't expected to find anyone there, let alone him.

Peeking in, her eyes widened.

Clinton stood there, still in his pajamas, tossing bed linens into the washing machine. The sight was so wrong that she lingered for a second longer than she should have. Clinton, of all people, washing his own sheets? The boy who never lifted a finger, who barely left his room before noon?

She had barely opened her mouth to ask when he cut her off with an irritated, "Do you want to lose your job?"

The warning was sharp, laced with a menace that made Aisha hesitate.

"I can do it," she had insisted, stepping forward.

"I said I'm busy. Go away," Clinton snapped, his glare making it clear she wasn't welcome.

Aisha faltered but held her ground. "What are you even doing here this early?"

"You have no right to ask me that," Clinton muttered darkly.

Her grip on the doorknob tightened as she turned to leave, but something caught her eye—a red stain on the quilt he was shoving into the machine.

Aisha's breath hitched.

The quilt was unmistakable—a blend of white and blue.

For a moment, her mind raced. Had she really seen what she thought she had?

She left quickly, heart pounding, brushing it off as a trick of the light. But even now, standing in the kitchen, she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling.

"Do you think that's why he did the laundry himself?" Aisha asked, arms folded.

The cook sighed, setting a frying pan on the stove as she peeled the ripe plantains. "Whose blood would it even be?" she asked, her voice laced with skepticism.

Aisha shrugged. That was the very question haunting her.

"Maybe you saw it wrong," the cook added, slicing the soft, yellow plantains into a bowl.

"But why would he leave his room so early just to do laundry? It doesn't make sense—" Aisha started, only to be interrupted by Tasha's voice, slightly shaky.

"Ma'am Aisha, would you like some lemonade?"

The words had slipped from her lips without thinking—a desperate attempt to stop the conversation before it spiraled into something she couldn't control.

Aisha blinked, surprised by the sudden offer. "Uh… sure."

Tasha smiled quickly. "It's in the fridge. I'll get some for you."

She turned, heading toward the refrigerator in the northwest corner, her mind racing. As she passed Aisha, she intentionally brushed her elbow against the woman's arm.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Tasha murmured, meeting Aisha's gaze briefly. "It's freshly squeezed. I made it myself."

Balancing a glass in one hand, she poured the lemonade from a transparent jug and handed the cup to Aisha, who took a sip.

"Thank you so much! Wow, I didn't realize how much I needed this," Aisha said, practically finishing the drink in one go.

"You're very welcome," Tasha replied smoothly.

"Wouldn't you offer me some, too?" Ruth, the cook, asked, glancing at Tasha with a warm smile.

Tasha bit her lip, pouring another glass.

The cook sipped slowly, savoring it. "This is so good," she said. "What's your secret?"

Tasha laughed softly, though her fingers tightened around the jug. "Just love," she said lightly.

Aisha set down her empty cup, tilting her head. "What's your favorite color, Mrs. Aisha?"

The question was random, but perfectly timed.

Aisha hesitated, then smiled. "Blue and gray."

Tasha's lips twitched. "Those are wonderful colors."

Rita set her glass down. "Can I have some more?" she asked.

"Of course."

Tasha poured, watching as both women drank deeply.

Anything to keep them distracted.

Later, Tasha carefully plated the food with Rita's guidance. The kitchen smelled of sweet plantains and fried eggs, warmth filling the air. As Rita handed her a piece of plantain to taste, she chewed slowly, savoring it.

Plantain had always been her favorite. Even as a child, her father had joked that she could live on it forever.

She prepared the tray with extra care, adding a fork and knife alongside a fresh glass of lemonade before carrying it upstairs to the sitting room.

Mrs. Sandra sat on the sofa, a laptop on her lap, sipping a glass of wine.

Clearing her throat, Tasha stepped forward and set the tray on the center table.

"Your lunch is here, ma'am."

Mrs. Sandra glanced up, her sharp yet kind eyes landing on Tasha. "Thank you, dear."

Tasha folded her hands behind her back as the woman gestured toward a smaller table. "Bring it here."

She obeyed quickly, setting it down. Just as she was about to turn and leave, Mrs. Sandra spoke.

"That reminds me," she mused, her fork slicing into her food. "Your father mentioned the college entrance exams you took recently."

Tasha's breath hitched.

Mrs. Sandra continued, lifting a forkful of eggs. "Would you like to attend Babcock College to further your education?"

Tasha froze.

Babcock.

The most prestigious university in the country. The kind of place people only dreamed of attending. The tuition alone was impossible.

Her heart pounded. "I… I would, ma'am."

Mrs. Sandra smiled, chewing her plantain. "Good," she said. "I'll speak to the director and handle the payments. It's the least I can do for you and your father."

For a second, Tasha thought she might burst into tears.

This was too much—too unreal.

"Thank you, ma'am," she whispered, voice trembling.

"They'll need your credentials," Mrs. Sandra added. "Bring them to me soon. They resume next Monday."

Tasha barely managed to hold back a squeal.

"Yes, ma'am! Right away, ma'am!"

She practically sprinted out of the room.

Once on the staircase, she stopped, pressing a hand to her chest, breathless with excitement.

She leaned against the rail, a smile spreading across her face.

Her dream was coming true.

Then, with newfound energy, she dashed to her room, heart pounding as she went to get the documents.