Twelve
1186 Words
Lisa
I spend the morning googling how to stop a six-year-old from wetting the bed.
I can’t keep watching Zara wake up in soaked sheets and look at me like she’s done something wrong.
The internet says stress. Trauma. Developmental delays. Medical issues.
I’m still reading when Patricia appears in the doorway of Zara’s playroom.
“You’re needed in the kitchen.”
“For what?”
“Mrs. Chen needs help with the shopping list.”
Bullshit. Mrs. Chen never needs help with anything. But I stand anyway.
She blocks the doorway, arms crossed.
“You need to stop acting like you own this place. Walking around like you’re special. You’re not.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Nine days left. Stop getting comfortable.”
I could back down. Apologize. Play nice.
But I didn’t survive this long by letting people walk over me.
“I know I’m temporary,” I say evenly. “Once I’m gone, you can run things your way. Until then, I’m doing what I was hired to do.”
Her face flushes. “You’re rude.”
“And you’ve been undermining me since day one. Mr. Montgomery knows.”
Her mouth opens and closes like a fish before she storms out.
Mrs. Chen’s voice drifts in from the hallway.
“That was something.”
She’s holding a dish towel, amusement in her eyes.
“She’s been horrible,” I say.
“I know. Patricia was Zara’s primary caregiver before you arrived. Your closeness makes her feel replaced
---
Zara’s therapist appointment is at three.
I get her ready—brushing her hair, checking her stuffed elephant, making sure she’s comfortable.
When Omarion’s car pulls up, Zara grabs my hand.
“Zara, we need to go,” he says.
“Not without Lisa.”
“Lisa has other things to do.”
“I won’t go unless Lisa comes.”
I glance at Omarion. He studies his daughter silently.
“Please,” I say softly. “Maybe if I come along, just this once?”
He looks at me, then: “Fine. Get in the car.”
I know this attachment isn’t healthy. But maybe if I’m there, I’ll finally learn what’s actually wrong with her.
We drive in silence. Omarion’s in one of his moods; Zara isn’t speaking either. Selective mutism. One minute she’s chatty, the next—gone.
Dr. Claire Sullivan's office is in a sleek building downtown. She's young, with dark hair pulled back in a neat bun and glasses that make her look both professional and approachable.
“It’s good to see you, Zara.”
No response.
Dr. Sullivan's gaze flicks to me, then to Omarion. "And you brought someone new today."
“This is Lisa,” Omarion says flatly. “Zara’s friend and temporary caregiver.”
“Nice to meet you, Lisa.”
We sit.
“How has she been this week?” Dr. Sullivan asks Omarion.
“Better. More engaged. Playing more.”
“Nightmares?”
“Yes.”
“And during the day?”
“She’s attached to Lisa. Won’t let her out of her sight.”
Dr. Sullivan studies me. “That’s actually positive. Healthy attachment is major progress.”
“Zara,” she says gently, “can you tell me about the monsters?”
Zara tenses. Her breathing picks up. Then a high, piercing scream tears from her throat.
I hold her while it runs its course. Omarion tenses; Dr. Sullivan stays calm.
Eventually, sobs replace screams. Her breathing evens out.
“That’s enough for today,” Dr. Sullivan says softly. “You did well, Zara.”
---
Omarion buys her ice cream on the way home. She barely eats, staring out the window as it melts down her hand.
At a red light, he looks in the rearview mirror.
“Company dinner tomorrow. At the house. You’ll be at the table. With Zara.”
“I don’t have anything appropriate to wear. I don't have extra cash right now for a fancy dress.”
He taps his phone. Five thousand dollars hits my account.
“Get something nice. You’re representing my household.”
I can feel him watching me as we pull into the driveway. Halfway to the door, his voice stops me.
“I’m going to sleep with you eventually.”
I spin around. He’s leaning against the car, arms crossed, eyes dark. “The question is when. Not if.”
I glance toward the house, toward where Zara should be, and realize she's already gone inside.
"I want your thighs wrapped around me," he says. Low and filthy and so blunt it steals my breath. "I want to know what you sound like when you come. When I want someone, I get them. I want you.”
“Well, then want someone else. You could have anyone.”
“But I don’t. I want you.”
“Well, you can’t have me.”
“We’ll see.”
I walk into the house before I say something stupid.
---
In the kitchen, I hear Patricia and someone else.
“—can’t wait for Lady Beatrice Sutton to get here,” Patricia says. “She and Mr. Montgomery will make a beautiful couple.”
“Do you think he’ll propose over Christmas?”
“I hope so. She’s perfect for him.”
"Have you seen her i********:?" Patricia asks. "She posted a photo yesterday. She's gorgeous."
I pull out my phone and google Beatrice Sutton because her name sounds very familiar.
The first result is an i********: account with a blue verification check.
I click it. Beatrice Sutton. Actress. Model.
I recognize her immediately.Maya's obsessed with her. Always talking about her movies, her style, her everything.
I scroll through her feed. Red carpet photos. Magazine covers. Candid shots that are flawless.
I check her followers for Eliana Montgomery.
Private account. Less than two thousand followers
Beatrice and Eliana were cousins. Omarion's engaged to his dead wife's cousin.
And he's been propositioning me for days.
I text Maya.
Me: You’re never going to believe who Omarion is seeing
She calls immediately.
"Who?"
"Your Beatrice Sutton."
She screams. Loud enough that I pull the phone away.
"Oh my God. Oh my GOD. I knew she was seeing someone but she's so private, I could never figure out who. It's Omarion Montgomery? Jesus, Lisa, they're going to have the most beautiful children."
When we hang up I sit there staring at Beatrice's i********:, at her perfect face and perfect life.
She's everything I'm not.
I sit staring at Beatrice’s feed. Perfect face. Perfect life. Everything I’m not.
---
I can’t sleep. Zara went down exhausted. I try, but every time I close my eyes, I see Omarion, hear his voice.
At midnight, I give up.
Mrs. Chen’s warning echoes—avoid him after dark. But I can’t stay in my room.
Moonlight spills across the foyer. I sit there, trying to clear my head.
Then gravel crunches. The low purr of an engine. Headlights sweep across the windows.
Omarion.
I should move. But I don’t.
He walks in. His eyes find me.
- Writer
