My Son's Coursemates are Mine

Chapter 8:"Unexpected Guest"

Chloe's POV:

{The Festerson Estate (Kitchen) – 7:15 AM}

The morning light was a harsh, white glare that stripped the grandeur from the kitchen, exposing the cold, sterile perfection of the marble countertops and the brushed steel appliances. I stood by the espresso machine, dressed in a sharp, tailored navy sheath dress and a cream blazer—the professional armor back in place, every line of my silhouette projecting authority.

My golden blonde hair was swept up into an elegant, structured twist, though a few soft, escaping curls framed my face, a subtle contrast to the severe angles of my posture.

"Mildred! Up. Now."

My voice rang through the high ceilings of the house, holding the sharp, maternal edge I used when gentleness was no longer an effective clinical tool.

A low, guttural groan echoed from the second-floor gallery. A minute later, Mildred descended the grand staircase, his movement heavy and uncoordinated. He was visibly hungover, his skin pale, his jaw locked in defensive silence, and his eyes bloodshot as he squinted against the bright morning light.

He had thrown on a wrinkled gray sweatshirt that made his broad shoulders look slouched and defeated, his short, dark hair messy and unstyled.

"I'm moving," he mumbled, collapsing onto one of the leather barstools at the island, burying his face in his hands.

"You're crawling," I corrected, sliding a tall glass of water and two electrolyte tablets across the granite toward him. "You have twenty minutes to present yourself as an elite student-athlete. Your coach does not care about your orientation-week festivities, and neither do I."

"It wasn't even the drinking," he groaned, his voice gravelly. "The noise... it felt like my head was in a vice."

"Then you should have managed your cognitive load more effectively," I said, my tone cool and devoid of sympathy as I poured a double shot of espresso. "You are an ambivert, Mildred. If you choose to spend your energy reserves on off-campus mixers, you must prepare for the physical deficit the following morning."

Before he could offer a sarcastic rebuttal, the heavy oak door to the garage clicked open.

We both froze.

My Husband, Alfred Festerson, walked into the kitchen. He was carrying his sleek leather garment bag over his shoulder, his dark charcoal corporate suit looking remarkably crisp for a man who had supposedly spent the night on a red-eye flight from Chicago. His silver-streaked hair—the same deep black as Mildred's, but showing his age—was perfectly combed, and his sharp, blue eyes swept over the kitchen with the territorial authority of a CEO returning to his boardroom. My husband was home. Two days early.

"Alfred," I said, my voice instantly adjusting to project a warm, calculated affection. I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around his neck for a brief, firm hug. As I pulled back, I playfully slapped the back of his head—a practiced, physical gesture we used to signal domestic ease to anyone watching.

"You're early. I thought the acquisition negotiations were locked until Thursday."

"The board capitulated at 3 AM," Alfred said, his voice a deep, smooth baritone that held no trace of fatigue. He set his briefcase on the counter, his eyes immediately dropping to Mildred’s slumped form. "We closed the deal, signed the contracts, and I caught the private charter out of Midway. I see my son is celebrating our success in his own unique way."

Mildred didn't look up from his water glass. "Good morning, Dad."

"Is it?" Alfred stepped closer, his physical presence instantly shrinking the room, his shadow falling over his son. "You look like a defensive line's punching bag, Mildred. First day of full contact is tomorrow, and you're sitting here with a hangover?"

"It's just a headache," Mildred muttered, his jaw tightening as he finally looked up, his quiet, analytical gaze locking onto his father's dominant posture.

"In my world, a headache is a failure of preparation," Alfred said, his tone dropping into that cold, transactional register that defined our marriage. He turned to me, offering a brief, superficial smile. "Chloe, did you let him out last night? I thought we agreed he needed to focus on the playbook."

"Mildred is nineteen, Alfred," I said, my voice maintaining a perfect balance between maternal protection and marital alignment. "He is capable of managing his own schedule, provided he meets his academic and athletic obligations. Which he will." I turned a sharp, commanding gaze to Mildred. "Go get changed. You have ten minutes."

Mildred slid off the barstool, his movement deliberate and slow—a quiet, stubborn protest against his father's authority. "Congratulations on the deal, Dad," he said, the words dripping with a cold, sarcastic formality before he turned and headed back up the stairs.

Alfred watched him go, his eyes narrowing as Mildred’s heavy footsteps receded up the grand staircase.

"He’s getting soft, Chloe," Alfred said, his deep baritone cutting through the vast expanse of the kitchen. He poured himself a black coffee, his movements efficient, cold, and calculated. "He has the build of a premier safety, but his mind is always somewhere else. He’s too quiet. He looks at me like he’s trying to draft a psychological profile."

"He is your son, Alfred," I murmured, raising the porcelain cup to my lips. I took a slow sip of my espresso, letting the bitter warmth drag down my throat and settle like molten lead in my chest. "He sees everything. Just like we do.

It isn't softness—it's cataloging."

Alfred turned, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine with the practiced, predatory gaze that had broken corporate boardrooms across the country. For a fraction of a second, the cold, domestic theater we played so flawlessly felt razor-thin. He stepped closer, the faint scent of expensive cologne and jet fuel clinging to his crisp charcoal suit, and placed a heavy, possessing hand on the small of my back.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against the curve of my cheek. "Don't analyze me at seven in the morning, darling. I have to get to work."

"Alright, Honey," He replied smoothly, leaning into the contact just enough to play my part, while my internal clock ticked down with merciless precision.

I set my empty cup in the sink, the ceramic clinking sharply against the stainless steel. I walked to the high-gilded mirror hanging near the foyer to inspect my reflection.

Every detail was immaculate. My golden blonde hair was pinned back into its severe, high-status twist, though a few soft, loose curls intentionally framed my jawline—a calculated touch of vulnerability to balance my sharp authority.

I looked down at the delicate Cartier watch resting on my wrist.

7:35 AM.

The domestic theater was over, and the clinical sanctuary of my office was waiting. And in less than twenty minutes, the boy with the panicked voice would be standing at my door.

Hopefully....