Chapter 18: The lady in red

“Hey…,” slavatore moved up so that our lips met, “You can say no, you know that, right? You looked a little scared there."

“I want to,” I said, "But…."

“You are not ready? "Fine, I'll wait,” he said.

I give a gentle nod.

He lay beside me and wrapped me up in his arms to cuddle. I didn't know when I slept off; being in his arms was so peaceful.

The next morning, a knock on the door woke us up; it was coming from Salvatore's bedroom. I heard the door open. "Dad?" he said.

I looked behind me; I was shocked to see that he wasn't beside me. When did he leave?

At night?

After I slept?

“I hear you came last night,” Mr. Sinclair said.

“I did,” Salvatore responded.

I walked out of bed and moved to the door that separated his bedroom from mine.

“With the freaking maid?" His voice sounded displeased.

“I don't want to be waited on by anybody else, Dad,” his voice was calm. “I want her."

Mr. Sinclair couldn't hear the boring desire in Salvatore's voice, but I did.

“Next time you make a decision like that, run it by me,”

Silence lingered in the air.

“Of course,” Salvatore finally said.

I moved to sit on the bed and placed my back against it, my gaze fixed on the ceiling as I listened.

“Maggie's funeral is in two days; are you prepared for it?"

“I don't have a choice, Dad," Salvatore sniffed as he spoke, and then I heard footsteps around the room.

“I understand that you loved her like a mother…"

"Dad, is Becky here?" he cut in. “In London,” he added.

"Yes, she is…,”

“So you brought the woman you are sleeping with to room for Aunt Maggie's funeral, the woman who is like a mother to me? "What a fucking slap in the face,” he cursed.

I curled my toes on the tiled floor, Becky.

“She's my fiancé Salvatore. Talk to her with respect."

I instantly say, "Up on the bed, finance?"

I recall Salvatore talking about his father's mistress. I quickly skipped out of bed and moved to the door. I leaned downward and placed an eye against the keyhole; thankfully, it was wide enough to allow me to see through.

Salvatore's bedroom had a dim yellowish light; his curtains were pulled aside, letting the ray of sunlight come in. Salvatore moved to his bed and grabbed a white T-shirt; he sniffed it before he threw it on, and then he faced his father. I couldn't see Mr. Salvatore clearly, just his arm.

“Was she your fiancé when you brought her to Mom's funeral?" His eyes blazed with anger. “You brought the woman you are fucking! To moms! "Funeral!" he barked, veins popping out of his head as he shouted.

Mr. Salvatore marched to him and placed both hands on Salvatore's face. “Now listen to me, boy, you are just a kid; there are things you don't know."

“Like what? You cheated on Mom, and she got a heart attack when she found out and died? I pretty much know everything at this point."

Mr. Sinclair took a step back and landed a hot slap on Salvatore's face; his face turned red instantly, and a streak of tears rolled down his eyes.

I pressed my hand against my chest; seeing him cry hurt, like, a lot.

“You will treat Becky with respect,” Mr. Sinclair growled.

“You disrespected Mom, Dad; I owe neither you nor that whore an ounce of respect." He grabbed a hoodie from his bed and marched out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a thundering thud. I heard his footsteps move down the hall.

I moved to sit on my bed, its soft texture pulling me inside; as I was deep in thought, I heard a knock on my door.

My head snapped up. "Salvatore?"

I rushed to the door, but as I pulled it open, I saw Mr. Sinclair standing before me, a stern look on his face.

“Mr… Mr. Sinclair,” I bowed my head to greet.

“You know how I like my coffee,” he said sternly. “Make it and bring it to me in the bedroom at the end of the hall."

"Y…yes, sir,” I responded.

He turned and walked off.

I quickly changed into a proper outfit and rushed out to the kitchen. Downstairs maids worked around the house. Some cleaned, some swept, while others cooked; the place sure was a busy household, lively unlike the Sinclair’s house.

I made my way to the kitchen. Four maids were in there; while three looked to be around my age, the last one was in her late fifties. She had grey hair and wrinkles on her face, just like Salvatore's grandmother.

They all gave me a curious gaze as I walked in. “Umm, Mr. Sinclair wants a cup of coffee.

Three of the young girls groaned in frustration, “I didn't know he was back."

The elder maid snapped her fingers. “Girls, don't be rude; he's our boss."

“But we do not know how to make the kind of coffee he likes," one of them said.

“He always says it's too sweet or too bland or too hot or too cold,” another complained.

“It's okay, I can make it,” I stepped in. “My mother taught me how to make it the way he likes."

They all gave a look I couldn't quite place. “Go ahead then,” one of the girls finally said.

As I began to make it, two of the girls watched, as if trying to learn. “You are lucky; when the maids in this house don't make it right, he grabs our hand and pours the hot coffee on it until our hands are red." I looked up in confusion, a hint of shock in my eyes. "What?"

“He has never done it to you?" the girl asked.

My mind reeled back to the time mother and I began to live with the Sinclairs; she used to wrap her hands all the time with the bandage because she kept burning her hand by accident. But now I realize it was no accident; Sinclair had been hurting her.

My jaw clenched tight, anger boiling within me.

Why did Mother hide the truth from me?

Was that why she would always forbid me from making his coffee?

When I finished, I carried the glass of hot coffee on a tray and walked upstairs until I reached his bedroom.

I placed a knock on the door, and his response came instantly: “Come in."

I twisted the doorknob and walked into the cold room; Mr. Sinclair sat on a desk beside the bedroom; he had changed into a black T-shirt and grey shorts; he had his reading glasses on.

I walked closer to him and placed the coffee on the table. I didn't ever like him before; his cold character was even worse than Salvatore's, but now that I know that he used to hurt my mother, I hated him a thousand times more.

He didn't take his eyes off his newspaper, and as I turned to leave, his voice stopped me. “Has my son been attending classes?"

I stopped but didn't turn back. “Yes, sir."

“Those late-night visits to his bedroom,” I heard his newspaper fold and crunch as he placed it on the table before him, “Are you helping him study?"

I turned to face him. "Yes, sir."

He grabbed the coffee and drew it to his lips as he sipped from it. He gave a nod of approval as he placed it back down.

"Lyra, I'm going to ask you a question, and I expect you to answer truthfully." His tone was dead serious.

My heart dropped. “Huh…yes, sir."

“Does my son have a girlfriend?"

I clenched my fingers to my side and quickly shook my head. “No, he doesn't."

He let out a disappointed breath. “Hmm, when Salvatore graduates high school in a few months, next year he'll be nineteen. I want him to get into a good college, study hard, and by twenty-three years he's done." Mr. Sinclair stood up from his seat. “After that I want him to marry a good girl from a wealthy family and run my companies with her."

A girl from a rich family?

Of course I didn't stand a chance.

“That's the life I want for my son, but while he acts as if he can get out of line, if I have to force him to obey me, he will."

“Why are you telling me this, sir?" I asked shakily.

“Because he gives you access to him more than he does to me, maybe you can talk to him in one of your little tutoring sessions,”

I nodded, and I turned to leave. “Make me a cup of coffee,” a lady's voice came.

I froze at the door and turned to see a lady I needed; she had long ginger hair, and she seemed to be in her mid-thirties and had freckles on her face. She was wrapped up in the white bedsheet; I knew she was naked under there.

Was she Becky?

"Yes, ma'am,” I bowed my head and walked out.

A minute later I returned with another glass; this time she had thrown on a red robe, and her hair was now up in a ponytail. She stood in front of the bedroom window and enjoyed the scenery.

“It's here,” inside.

She turned around and inhaled sharply.

She walked to me; she hadn't said anything yet, but I was intimidated by her presence. She grabbed the cup from me and took a sip; she instantly spat it out, letting the hot liquid burn my face.

I shouted and took a step back, wiping my face frantically with the back of my arm.

“Why is there no sugar in this?" she hissed.

“I…that's how Mr. Sinclair likes it so…"

She smashed the glass against the floor, letting it scatter into a million pieces. “Am I Joseph??" she asked.

Joseph was Mr. Sinclair's first name.

“Becky, it's okay."

She sucked in a deep breath and landed a resounding slap on my face. I gasped, my face stinging; I quickly placed my hand on my cheek. “I'm so sorry,” my voice shook.

"Becky!" Mr. Sinclair shouted. “She's just an eighteen-year-old,"

She took a step back. "Get out and make another coffee."

I quickly turned around and rushed out. As I shut the door behind me and began to walk down the hall, I froze as I saw Salvatore standing in front of his door.

His brows pinched together, his head tilted tongue-side as he watched the expression on my face, “Why are you coming out of my father's bedroom?" His hand slipped away from his doorknob, and he walked to me; his expression switched from curious to angry, his eyes burning red.

“Did my dad hit you?"

I shook my head, “No,” the tears that I had been holding in finally strolled down my cheeks.

“Don't lie to me, ”.

“It was his fiancée," I quickly cut in.

His gaze snapped up. “How dare that woman touch my woman?!" He rushed in the direction of the bedroom, as if he was ready to fight.

"Salvatore!" I shouted.

But he didn't respond.