Five Brutal Kings 10

Clinton stifled a yawn, rubbing his temples as a dull headache crept in. He had been sitting by the window for over an hour, lost in thought, staring at nothing in particular. A cup of coffee would fix this, he decided. With a lazy press of the buzzer, he leaned back, waiting.

Twenty minutes passed before a knock sounded at the door. The third. The fourth. Clinton ignored them.

"Enter," he finally said.

The door cracked open, and a man stepped inside with a hesitant gait Clinton despised. His head was lowered, hands clasped behind his back as if bracing for impact. "Apologies for the delay, sir," the blonde man murmured. "I was occupied when the buzzer rang, and the cook had gone to the market—"

Clinton rolled his eyes and turned his chair, leveling the man with a cold stare. "Just shut up."

The man snapped his mouth shut.

"Get me coffee," Clinton said, voice flat.

"Yes, sir." He nearly stumbled in his haste to leave.

Minutes later, he returned, a porcelain cup balanced on a saucer, steam curling into the air. Clinton took it without a word, his movements slow and deliberate. He brought the rim to his lips, expecting the smooth, rich bitterness he was accustomed to.

The taste hit him like an insult.

With no warning, the cup slipped from his grasp and shattered at his feet, coffee splattering across the polished floor. Silence swallowed the room.

The man flinched. "S-Sir?"

Clinton pushed to his feet, his chair scraping back violently. His head pulsed, anger threading through the pain. "What the hell did you give me?" His voice was dangerously low, the kind that made people's blood run cold.

The man's face drained of color. "I—I'm sorry, sir, I—"

"One more word," Clinton warned, pressing a hand to his temple. The pain spiked, a dull roar in his skull. His vision blurred for a second, forcing him to steady himself against the edge of the bed. The man moved instinctively to help, but Clinton's glare froze him mid-step.

"Sir, you should see a doctor," the man ventured, voice tight with fear.

Clinton ignored him, breathing through the pain, forcing the pulsing ache into submission. Seconds stretched before he spoke again.

"Where's the woman who used to make my coffee?" His voice was eerily calm now, controlled.

The man hesitated. "You fired her, sir."

Clinton exhaled sharply, as if that answer didn't surprise him in the slightest. He had a habit of discarding people as easily as replacing an accessory.

"Find her." He straightened, expression unreadable. "And take her place."

Neo stiffened. "S-Sir?"

Clinton ignored him, striding to the cupboard, yanking open a drawer, and pulling out his checkbook.

Neo paled. He knew exactly what was happening. His time was up.

"Sir, I—"

Clinton scrawled his signature, tore the check free, and flicked it to the floor like trash.

"You have an hour to bring her back," he said, already turning toward the bathroom. "If you don't, I'll have you arrested."

Neo's heart pounded as he bent to pick up the check. His eyes widened at the amount—a sum no sane person would refuse.

But the weight of his failure settled deeper.

With a slow, reluctant breath, he straightened.

"Right away, sir."

Then he turned and walked out, knowing this was the last time he'd serve Clinton Cornell.

**********

Clinton adjusted the phone in his grip, squinting slightly as he descended the stairs. The boys' voices crackled through the speaker, their conversation lively enough to momentarily distract him from the annoyance brewing in his chest.

"Where are you?" he asked Samuel.

"At the museum with Georgia," Samuel muttered, his tone dripping with exhaustion. "She dragged me here, even though I wanted to sleep all day."

Clinton smirked. He could imagine Samuel trailing behind his sister, half-awake and regretting his life choices.

Georgia Boron—model, social media darling, art enthusiast. Her jet-set lifestyle had taken her across the world, but whenever she was home, she made a point to squeeze culture into her routine.

"This is so cool," Georgia's voice chimed faintly through the call. "Look at this piece from the 1800s!"

Samuel sighed dramatically. "She won't let me leave."

Clinton chuckled as he reached the last step. "Tough luck."

"Tell me about it," Daniel grumbled from his end of the call. "I locked myself in my room. Had another blowup with my parents."

"Not surprising," David muttered. "They always find a way to get under your skin."

A sharp knock interrupted him.

"Your breakfast, sire," a polite voice called from outside David's door.

David rolled his eyes. "Go away. I'm not hungry."

A pause. Then the voice returned, soft yet insistent.

"Sire, it's past ten. You should eat something—"

David groaned. "You're bothering me."

A silence followed.

"She's totally in love with you," Harrison teased over the call.

David exhaled loudly. "Please stop."

Harrison only laughed. Then, shifting the topic, he turned to Clinton. "By the way, your scent is ready."

Clinton leaned against the stair railing, mildly intrigued.

"Wasn't easy, but I made them do it," Harrison continued. "Took extra cash—money rules everything, after all."

Clinton smirked. He could already imagine the custom blend waiting for him. "Nice work."

Yet, even as they talked, his thoughts drifted.

His morning had started with a headache—and bad coffee. The woman who used to make it? Gone. The fool who replaced her? Fired.

He had sent for her, but why had it taken so long?

Maybe she had found another job.

If so, he'd double her pay. Whatever it took, she was coming back.

"Guys, I'll talk to you later," Clinton said, ending the call as his gaze caught movement near the stairway.

A girl hesitated in the hall, palms curled around a porcelain cup.

She was young. Slim. Her blonde hair tied back loosely, a few strands falling over her delicate features.

Clinton's brows furrowed.

He knew her.

The girl who had ruined his sitting room.

His thumb hovered over his phone, one swipe away from calling security.

"I'm here with your coffee, sir," she said softly.

Her voice was steady, but her hands gripped the cup tightly—too tightly.

Clinton said nothing. Just stared.

Finally, she swallowed and spoke again.

"I'm her daughter," she clarified. "My mother is in the hospital. She couldn't come, so I was asked to fill in."

A pause.

"She's grateful you brought her back."

Clinton exhaled slowly, then descended the last step.

Gabriella moved quickly, offering the cup.

He took it, lifting it to his lips.

The first sip melted the tension in his jaw.

Warm. Bold. Perfect.

His gaze flicked back to her, cold and unreadable.

"I still haven't forgiven you," he murmured.

Gabriella's fingers twitched, but she held his gaze.

"I brought pastries," she said, shifting slightly. "They'd go well with your coffee."

Clinton looked at her. "I don't eat street food."

She only nodded, unsurprised.

He handed her the empty cup.

"Tell the chef to make me brunch."

Gabriella dipped her head. "Yes, sir."

As she turned to leave, Clinton sat by the window, letting the cool breeze wash over him.

His headache had dulled.

Minutes later, Gabriella returned.

"Your meal is served, sir."

Clinton rose, following her into the dining room. The aroma of biryani, chicken paprika, and fresh salad filled the air.

He barely touched the food. Not that it mattered.

His attention flickered to the stacked materials on the table.

"They arrived earlier today," Gabriella informed him.

Clinton sighed, already annoyed.

A note sat on top, scrawled in his mother's elegant handwriting.

School resumes tomorrow.

The list of textbooks, writing materials, and designer bags she had purchased for him followed.

Clinton crumpled the paper, tossing it aside.

"Take them to my room," he ordered, rising from his seat. "I'm heading out."

Gabriella hesitated. She glanced at his plate. Barely touched.

Before he stepped through the doorway, Clinton turned.

"What's your name?"

She blinked. "Gabriella, sire."

Something flickered in his gaze.

Recognition. Interest. Or perhaps nothing at all.

Then, with a careless shrug, he muttered,

"Okay."

And just like that, he was gone.

The roar of his brand-new sea-green sports car echoed through the estate moments later.