He Asked That I Bring You

He Asked That I Bring You
Joseph blinked. “She did what?”

“She’s the one who did it,” Susan continued, her voice breaking as her eyes filled with tears. “I tried recording her confession, but before I could, she walked out. I chased after her, and I forgot to brake when I reached the stairs. That’s how I fell. That’s why you found me on the floor.”

Joseph exhaled slowly, his jaw tight, his eyes cold and unreadable. “And you’re sure you’re not making this up?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Susan shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I’m not! Why would I lie about something this serious?”

Joseph leaned back, crossing his arms. “Good. You know how serious this is — because I’m finding it hard to believe you.”

Susan’s voice cracked. “Of course you would.” The tears streamed down her face. “She said it herself — that you wouldn’t believe me.”

Joseph’s expression didn’t change. “You’ve given me no choice, Susan,” he said flatly. “Just yesterday, you accused me. How do I know this isn’t the same thing again? How do I know you’re not just blaming everyone because you’re hurt?”

“I’m not—ttttttt!!!!” Susan screamed, dragging out the word, her voice breaking.

Joseph’s gaze stayed fixed on her. “Your tears won't work on me. So stop.” His voice was harsh, but deep down, something flickered in his eyes — a quiet uncertainty, a hint that he was genuinely confused of what to believe.

Each word cut into Susan like a knife. Her lips trembled as she whispered, “I saw this coming…”

Joseph frowned. “What coming?”

“You siding with your fuck buddy,” she said bitterly, her tone sharp even through her pain.

Joseph didn’t respond with anger. Instead, a slow, mocking smile crossed his face. He looked toward the door and called out loudly, “Hey! One of you out there, come in here now!”

Almost immediately, the door opened, revealing one of the security agents standing outside.

“Fetch me my mother,” Joseph ordered, his voice calm but heavy.

“Yes, sir,” the agent said with a nod, turning immediately to leave the room.

Susan sat there in silence, her heart pounding as she watched him walk out. Joseph leaned back against the sofa, his face unreadable, his thoughts a storm behind his cold eyes.

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'MAGGIE’S ROOM'

The TV hummed quiet. The weather man’s voice floated soft and flat. Maggie sat deep in the pink couch, legs tucked to one side, hands folded over her knees. Her face was calm. Her eyes were fixed on the screen. She watched rain maps slide left to right. The room smelled faintly of lavender from a candle on the dresser.

A knock cut through the soft noise. Maggie’s head snapped to the door. Her brows pulled tight for a second, then smoothed into that thin, practiced smile she kept for people who did not deserve it.

“Yes. Who’s there?” Her voice was flat. Small. Dangerous.

The door swung open. A man in black stepped in. He was an SS agent, clean suit, earpiece tucked neat. He gave a careful bow. His shoes whispered on the rug as he closed the door behind him.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said. His tone was tight with that formal politeness men like him used when they wanted trouble to think twice.

Maggie didn’t move. Her fingers rolled once across the couch’s soft arm, slow and deliberate. She watched him like she watched the weather map—cold, measuring.

“How may I help you?” she asked, not blinking.

The agent straightened. His mouth opened, then closed. He started again. “Ma’am… your son requires—”

Maggie cut him off with one hard look. “Did I even ask you to come in?” Her voice was small and sharp. “You people just barge into rooms now? You do whatever you want?”

The man’s bow tightened. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. He sounded small. He sounded like a child who had broken a vase.

Maggie let out a breath. The tiny smile on her face didn’t reach her eyes. “Keep your lame apology. I don’t want it.” She leaned forward a little, enough to let the agent feel the heat behind the words. “I didn’t say you should come in. Did I?”

The agent swallowed. He kept the bow, a little deeper now. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Stop apologizing. Are you deaf?” Maggie snapped. The calm edge in the room snapped like glass. The agent flinched. He looked like he wanted to run back out the door.

“You better have a goddamn good reason for barging into my room,” Maggie said. Her voice slid into a low, dangerous line. She peered at him, eyes wide, mouth crooked. There was menace wrapped in the politeness. The agent’s hands twitched near his belt. He chose words like he would choose gloves in winter— careful, slow.

“I— I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said again. He said it like a prayer. He was stuck. He had the wrong name to say. He was afraid of the next word.

Maggie leaned back. Her shoulders stayed square. “Will you stop fucking apologizing?” she hissed. “Why are you here?”

The agent’s voice trembled a fraction now. “It’s— it’s your son, ma’am.”

Maggie’s eyebrow climbed. The single movement was a blade. “What about my son?” she asked.

“He’s asking for your presence,” the agent said, every syllable wrapped in that formal bow.

“My presence?” Maggie’s laugh was low and dry. “Why?”

“I don’t… know, ma’am.” The agent’s eyes flicked to the corner of the room where the TV still showed the weather man. He tried to be steady and failed.

"What do you know?" Maggie’s smile tightened. She let a beat pass, slow as a metronome. “Tell him I will come when I'm finished wirh the news.” She pointed to the screen like a queen pointing to a subject. The agent’s jaw worked. He wanted to argue. He wanted to say no. He wanted many things. He only said, “I don’t think it can wait, ma’am.”

“If it can’t wait, then he can come to me,” Maggie said. Her voice was small and bright with steel.

“It’s not a request, ma’am,” the agent said. “He asked that I bring you.”