I let the intercom ring twice more before I moved.
It wasn't that I didn't hear it. My house was designed to carry sound like a whisper through glass. I waited because anticipation, when timed right, is a weapon. Two minutes was my sweet spot—long enough to unsettle, short enough to remain polite.
I set my wine down and crossed the marble floor barefoot. The stone still held the warmth of the afternoon sun. On the monitor, the camera feed flickered to life.
Mike. Of course.
He had two bouquets this time—red roses, predictably over-the-top—and a sleek box of imported chocolates tucked under his arm. He shifted his weight, practicing patience the way men like him always did: visibly.
I opened the door the exact second he started to lose his cool.
His face lit up like a switch had been flipped. His glasses were spotless, catching the hallway light. Mike didn’t do anything halfway; even his charm was polished to a high shine.
"Good evening to the most beautiful woman on earth."
There it was. A line practiced in a mirror, delivered like it had never failed him.
I leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed. "You’re getting predictable, Mike."
"Predictability builds trust," he said smoothly, stepping past me before I could invite him in.
Some people don’t ask for permission. They just take up space. The scent of roses followed him—thick and theatrical. I took one bouquet, sniffing it out of habit.
"I’ll take these," I said, dropping them on the table. "I assume the other is for Charity?"
"Of course." He pulled out a chair, sitting with the confidence of a man who owned the room. "Where is she? Asleep?"
I opened the chocolates. Dark, glossy, expensive. I bit into one, letting the bitterness coat my tongue before washing it down with wine. "No. She’s with someone."
Mike paused mid-reach for his glass. "Someone?"
His tone shifted. It was a tiny crack, but I caught it. Dermatology taught me to read surfaces; life taught me to read what crawled beneath them.
"Her boyfriend?" he asked.
I took my time. Another sip. Another second of silence to make him sweat. Then, a voice cut through from the hallway.
"I don't like boys, Uncle."
We both turned. Charity stood there, but my eyes immediately snagged on the man behind her. He filled the doorway, making the kitchen feel suddenly cramped. He had a single bag slung over his shoulder and a loose, lazy posture that made Mike look stiff. Severino didn't fit the room, and somehow, that made the room look worse, not him.
He looked at us with a stare that bordered on disgust.
"I'll walk Seven out, Mom," Charity said.
"I'll do it, sweetheart. Stay here." I stepped toward her, smoothing her hair. "Just say hi to Mi—"
"No." The word snapped. She folded her arms, chin high.
I swallowed a sigh. Now wasn't the time for a lecture. "Wait here," I told them, then turned back to Mike.
He looked sour. He knew Charity hated him, and he was too proud to try and win her over. "Well," Mike muttered, "I guess I’m being ignored again. Who’s the kid?"
"Charity’s tutor," I said. "It’s late, Mike. I have to see him out."
Mike adjusted his leather coat, buffing a spot that wasn't there. "I’ll take him. Where does he live?" He grabbed my arm, nudging me aside as he let out a sharp, careless whistle toward the door. "Kid! Where do you live? I’ll drop you."
"Mike..." I grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back. He tried to lace his fingers through mine, but I pulled away. "I’ll handle it. I need to talk to him about her grades."
He exhaled, long and dramatic. He knew that tone—it meant the conversation was over. "Fine. Looks like I don't have a choice." He leaned in, his thumbs tracing slow circles on my elbows. "See you at the clinic." He kissed my cheek.
It felt like nothing. No spark, no heat. Not even a flicker of the fire I could find on my own.
I didn't walk him to the door. He knew the way out. I waited until I heard the heavy thud of the front door before turning back to the kitchen.
Charity and Severino were talking, her voice light and animated—a side of her Mike never saw. At nineteen, she looked almost like his peer.
"Finally," Charity sighed when she saw me. "Mom, please don't do that stuff in front of us. It's embarrassing, especially with Seven here."
I glanced at Severino. He was scrolling through his phone, his long fingers moving fast. "Is your friend ready?"
"Yeah, he's just messaging his aunt," Charity said, leaning in to peek at his screen. They were comfortable. Too comfortable.
"All right. Let's go."
***
"Do you live alone?" I asked as we wove through traffic.
The car was small, and his scent—something warm and masculine—was fighting with my perfume. It made the air feel heavy.
"No. I stay with my aunt," Severino said, looking out the window. "Parents are dead. I moved in to help her earn a living."
He said it so casually it hit harder than a sob story. I tightened my grip on the wheel, focused on the GPS. "That must have been hard."
"How would you know?" he shot back. "You’ve never been in my position."
I glanced at him. "I don’t have to live your life to understand it."
Silence stretched between us, thick and vibrating. I opened my mouth to bring up Charity’s lesson plan, but he beat me to it.
"Have you ever been with a younger man, Patricia?"
My foot slipped off the accelerator. "Excuse me?"
The car slowed. I turned to him, and he was already staring. His eyes were dark, burning with a look that wasn't respectful or "tutor-like." He was looking at me like a challenge he intended to win.
"I’m asking if you’ve ever had a relationship with someone younger," he repeated, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my lips. "I’ll take that as a no."
"Do you want to get fired on your first day?" My voice was sharp, but there was a hum in my blood I couldn't ignore.
"Fired for a question?"
"That wasn't just a question."
He leaned in slightly, a 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 pulled them back. A bright red flush spread across his skin. I didn't regret it for a second.
Severino didn't flinch. He just ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip and turned back to me, looking more amused than hurt.
"The next time you slap me," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low crawl, "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."
It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.
Before I could breathe—before I could decide whether to scream or reach for him—he opened the door. The roar of the city flooded the car. He stepped out, shut the door with a final thud, and walked away.
I sat there in the silence, my heart hammering against my ribs, skin flushed with a heat I couldn't explain.
Severino Haynes was a jerk. And I was in trouble.
