Your father’s widow
1951 Words
MIRABELLA
The next morning, I find Kaius in the driveway leaning against Kaden’s truck.
He’s dressed in sneakers, long gym shorts, and a muscle tee that’s open at the sides, revealing strips of tan skin and defined muscle.
He looks hotter than any jerk has the right to, and I hate that I notice. A baseball cap is pulled low over his forehead, casting shadows across his face.
I glance around, searching for Kieran who’s supposed to take me to school, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Looking for someone?” Kaius asks, his voice carrying that familiar edge of mockery.
I shift my backpack on my shoulder, pretending I haven’t heard him. The courtyard stretches empty around us—no sign of the Mercedes, no sign of escape. My stomach sinks as I check my phone. If I don’t leave in the next five minutes, I’ll be late for my first shift at the café, and Belinda made it clear she doesn’t tolerate tardiness.
“Get in,” Kaius says, jerking his head toward the truck. “I’ll give you a ride.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out the angle. There’s always an angle with him. “Where’s Kieran?”
“Running errands for Cassian.” He opens the passenger door with an impatient flick of his wrist. “You coming or not? I don’t have all morning.”
Every instinct screams at me to refuse, to walk the two hours to town if I have to rather than accept anything from him. But reality crashes down hard—I don’t have two hours, and showing up late on my first real shift isn’t an option. Not when this job is the only thing standing between me and complete dependence on the Windsors.
“Fine,” I mutter, climbing into the truck before I can change my mind.
The interior smells like leather and something distinctly masculine—expensive cologne layered over something earthier, more primal. I press myself against the passenger door, putting as much distance between us as physics allows. Kaius slides into the driver’s seat with the kind of easy grace that comes from never having to think about how you move through the world, and starts the engine. The rumble vibrates through my bones, making me hyperaware of the confined space.
We pull out of the driveway in suffocating silence. I try to focus on anything but him—the trees blurring past, the way morning light turns everything gold, the soft hum of the radio he’s turned down so low I can barely hear it. But it’s useless.
I hate myself for it, but I can’t stop stealing glances at him. Can’t stop cataloging the sharp line of his jaw, the way his throat moves when he swallows, how his long fingers grip the steering wheel with casual confidence. It’s really unfair how attractive he is, how my traitorous body reacts to his proximity even though my mind knows better. I’m not usually into people as cruel as he is, but I guess I have the mate bond to thank for this unwanted, infuriating attraction.
“Why are you staring at me?” he asks suddenly, not even glancing my way.
Heat floods my cheeks, but I refuse to look away now that I’ve been caught.
“Why not?”
His jaw tightens. “Like what you see, do you?”
“Nope,” I say, injecting as much disdain into my voice as I can manage. “Just committing to memory the face of the devil. You know, so if I’m ever asked to draw one, I’ll have a reference.”
The sound that escapes him is halfway between a snort and a laugh, though he tries—and fails—to suppress it. For one disorienting second, he seems almost human, almost likeable, before his expression hardens back into familiar cruelty.
“About this job of yours at the café,” he says after a few minutes of tense silence.
My spine goes rigid. “What about it?”
“You need to quit.” It’s not a suggestion—it’s a command, delivered with all the authority of someone who’s never been told no in his entire privileged life. “Cassian won’t like it.”
“I don’t care what Cassian likes or doesn’t like,” I shoot back, anger flaring hot and bright in my chest. “Nothing is going to make me quit that job. I need it.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, and he makes a sound at the back of his throat that clearly broadcasts his displeasure. But surprisingly, he doesn’t push further. The silence that follows is somehow worse than the arguing—thick and uncomfortable, charged with tension I don’t know how to break and wouldn’t want to if I could.
The truck comes to a halt in front of the café sooner than I expected. I’m reaching for the door handle before he’s even fully stopped, desperate to escape the suffocating proximity.
“Thanks for the ride,” I mutter, already halfway out.
I’m three steps away when guilt makes me pause. Despite everything, my mother raised me better than a mumbled thank-you thrown over my shoulder. I turn back, opening my mouth to offer something more genuine, and that’s when I finally get a full, unobstructed look at his face.
My hand flies to my mouth, shock stealing my breath.
The left side of his face is a mess of bruises—mottled purple and yellow spreading across his cheekbone like some grotesque watercolor. His bottom lip is swollen and split, and there’s an ugly gash over his eyebrow that looks like it should have been stitched hours ago. If it looks this horrible now, I can’t even imagine how bad it must have been when he came home last night.
“What happened?” The question bursts out before I can stop it, genuine concern overriding common sense and self-preservation.
His expression shutters completely, going cold and distant as winter. “It’s nothing to you.”
Before I can respond, he’s shifting into drive, leaving me standing on the curb watching his taillights disappear. The dismissal stings more than it should, and I hate that it does. Hate that some stupid part of me actually cares that he’s hurt, that he won’t tell me why, that he went somewhere dangerous in the middle of the night and came back looking like he’d gone three rounds in an underground fight club.
I shake my head hard, forcing my feet to move toward the café entrance. Whatever Kaius Windsor does in his spare time is none of my business. I have my own problems to worry about, and they don’t include bruised, beautiful boys with more secrets than sense.
***
As my week progresses, things seem to have quieted down at school. The initial frenzy around my arrival has faded, and it seems everyone has moved on to the next scandal or drama.
The whispers have died down to occasional murmurs, the stares have become less frequent, and I can walk through the halls without feeling like a specimen under a microscope.
I know in my gut it’s temporary. The Windsors don’t forget, and neither does anyone in their orbit. But I’ll take the reprieve while it lasts.
I’m halfway to Government when I realize Sophie isn’t with me—we don’t share this period. The hallway feels longer without her steady presence beside me, more hostile somehow. By the time I reach the classroom, tension has knotted itself between my shoulder blades.
Kaden Windsor is already there, of course.
He’s sprawled in his seat near the front with the kind of careless confidence that makes me want to knock him off balance, just to see if it’s possible. His emerald eyes flick to me as I enter—a brief, assessing glance that feels like being cataloged and dismissed in the same breath—before returning to the brunette leaning over his desk.
Whatever he says makes her laugh, high and pretty, and her hand comes to rest on his forearm like it belongs there.
I’ve watched him do this all week. Different girls, same routine. The smile that’s just the right amount of crooked, the way he leans in like they’re the only person in the room, the casual touches that probably feel electric to whoever’s on the receiving end. It’s a performance he’s perfected, and it makes my skin crawl—not because he’s doing it, but because it works. Every single time.
Even in seduction mode, the arrogance never slips. It sits on his handsome face like armor he was born wearing, protecting whatever’s underneath with layers of superiority and practiced charm.
I slide into my usual seat in the back corner, as far from the front as I can get, and try to disappear into my notebook.
The teacher starts droning about separation of powers, and I force myself to take notes even though my mind keeps wandering to Kaius’s bruised face. Where did he go last night? Who did that to him? And why do I even care?
By the time the bell rings, my hand is cramping and I’ve retained exactly nothing about checks and balances.
I make my way outside, relieved to see the familiar black Mercedes waiting in the pickup line. But when I reach it and slide into the backseat, Kieran’s expression in the rearview mirror is more serious than usual.
“Miss Taylor,” he says carefully. “Mr. Windsor is waiting for you at the poolside when we arrive.”
My stomach drops like a stone.
“Which Mr. Windsor?”
“Mr Cassian, miss.”
The drive back to the estate feels both too long and too short, dread building with every mile that passes. When we pull through the gates, I thank Kieran with a voice that doesn’t quite sound like mine and make my way around to the back of the house on unsteady legs.
The pool area stretches out before me in pristine, intimidating luxury—all gleaming water and expensive furniture arranged just so. And there, sitting at one of the umbrella-covered tables like this is a perfectly normal afternoon, is Cassian Windsor.
He looks up as I approach, his expression unreadable in that way powerful people have perfected.
“Mirabella. Please, sit.”
I lower myself into the chair across from him, clutching my backpack in my lap like it might shield me from whatever’s coming. The afternoon sun glints off the pool’s surface, creating dancing patterns of light that would be beautiful if I weren’t so terrified.
“Would you like anything to drink?” he asks with the practiced courtesy of someone who’s been hosting business meetings since before I was born.
“Water? Juice? Something stronger?”
“I’m fine,” I manage, though my throat feels like sandpaper. “Thank you.”
He nods slowly, folding his hands on the table between us with deliberate precision. There’s a pause that stretches too long, heavy with unspoken words and implications I can’t quite grasp. When he finally speaks, he clears his throat first, and somehow that small gesture of uncertainty makes everything worse.
“Lucy wants to meet you,” he says.
I blink, confusion momentarily overriding anxiety. “Who’s Lucy?”
Cassian’s green eyes—so much like twins’ and yet somehow fundamentally different, meet mine steadily. When he answers, his voice is quiet but clear.
“Your father’s widow.”
- Writer
